


Where None Intrudes

by ararelitus, CrafterOfWords



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (see), Bit of a slow burn... over two days, Blowjobs, Climbing exercises to cope, Domesticity, Fitzier, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, In Vino Veritas, It's all very Victorian, James is not fond of yer lobster Frauncis, Kneeling, Knitting to satisfy mans’ worst urges, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, Lighthouses, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Puffin group therapy, Rock Rage in the Rain, Things left unsaid, Too many descriptions of the sun, moderate wine drinking, we both saw The Lighthouse and went WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ararelitus/pseuds/ararelitus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrafterOfWords/pseuds/CrafterOfWords
Summary: After his nightmare in the Arctic Circle, Francis Crozier wants nothing more than to retire to a secluded spot and enjoy his days in serenity and solitude. When he hears that a nearby Lighthouse is in need of a new keeper, he jumps at the chance and happily agrees when James Fitzjames offers to join him. Francis thinks he's leaving all his worries behind, but James has his own ideas about this new adventure. Now, they will find that the loneliest of places can tear people apart, or bind them together.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 31
Kudos: 67
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	1. Chapter 1

> “There is a rapture on the lonely shore,  
> There is society, where none intrudes,  
> By the deep sea, and music in its roar:  
> I love not man the less, but Nature more”
> 
> ― Lord Byron

* * *

“I never thought I’d live to see the day that I missed the Arctic, Thomas.”

Francis Crozier dropped the _Yorkshire Post_ onto the table in front of him with a sigh. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest as he gazed across at his old friend, Thomas Blanky. 

“If I have to go to one more of these damned Admiralty balls or dinner parties, or the like, I may murder someone.”

Blanky took a long sip of his tea and nodded sagely. His keen eyes darted down to the paper, then back up to his friend, sensing that there was more to come, and waiting for him to continue.

“I’m so _tired_ , Thomas. I’m weary in body and soul, and I have no patience with people anymore.”

“Did you ever?” Blanky asked, grinning.

Francis waved him off. “You know what I mean. It’s different now. Different, after…”

“Aye, I know what you mean,” Thomas said, turning to glance out toward the sea. “After the years we spent out in that God forsaken nowhere, it’s hard to adjust to living in so-called society.”

Francis huffed out a laugh. “Indeed. If I never had to lay eyes on another living soul for the rest of my days, it would be fine by me. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Blanky said, knowing better than to take offense to such a remark. “Listen, Francis… if you _really_ want to get away from the masses, there are ways of doing so. Just the other day I was talking to an old mate of mine. He told me they’re looking for a wickie to tend the light over on Lundy Island.”

Francis perked up immediately. “I lighthouse keeper, you say… That sounds ideal.”

Blanky arched a brow, unsure whether Francis was serious. “Aye, it would be the epitome of solitude, but I only mentioned that particular post as an example. You don’t want to be traipsing up and down a lighthouse tower on that bum knee of yours. And anyway, what of James?”

“What _of_ him?” Francis replied, sipping his tea.

“Well, what I mean is… you’ve been renting rooms together these past several months, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then…” He gave Francis a meaningful look.

Francis frowned at him. “James is a grown man, Thomas. He’ll do what he sees fit to do with his own life.”

“Aye, to be sure, but, you’ve become...well, _close_.”

 _Close… I never want to hear that word again._ Francis waved him off. “Yes, James is a dear friend, but I’ve no doubt he will be just as pleased to have the flat to himself. The man has more clothes than we have furniture to store it in. And anyway, he could always come visit me on the island. Now, tell me more about this Lighthouse keeper position.”

The following morning found Francis back on a train, bound for London. He’d enjoyed his brief visit with Thomas Blanky and the relative seclusion of Whitby, but he had missed James’ company, and looked forward to seeing him again. Gazing out the passenger window, he recalled the previous day’s conversation and Thomas’ concern over James. Silly, really. James Fitzjames was a man who adored the limelight, and Francis was quite certain he would have no trouble finding a boarder to share the rent, if he so desired, and he would always be welcome to come and stay whenever he wanted. Perhaps Francis could set up a spare bed just for James to use when he came to visit… 

With a sigh, Francis pulled down the window shade and leaned back in his chair. There was no need to concern himself with such thoughts. Likely as not, none of it would work out anyway. He closed his eyes and imagined the peace and solitude of an island all his own. 

~~~~~

By the time he arrived back at home, Francis was weary and stiff from his journey. He fumbled with his key, finally managing to insert it into the lock and open the door. The flat, small and cramped as it was, welcomed him with its familiar sights, sounds, and smells, most of which were somehow synonymous with his roommate.

“James?” he called, turning to remove his traveling hat and coat, his overnight bag dropped to the floor just inside the door for the moment. “Are you here?”

No sooner had the words escaped his mouth than James appeared, grinning broadly as he approached with arms extended. “Francis! I’m so glad you’re home!”

Francis was sure he’d been about to hug him, but at the last moment, he seemed to think better of the idea and simply clapped him on the shoulder in greeting.

“How’s Thomas, how was Whitby? Any exciting tales from the road?” 

“Fine, fine, all fine,” Francis said with a laugh, reaching out to return the gesture of hand on shoulder. “I fear I’ll have to disappoint you, though, if you were hoping for tales of excitement. One normally goes to Whitby to get away from excitement, rather than to find it. But it is good to be home, James. It’s good to see you again.” Releasing his grip on James’ shoulder, Francis turned and picked up his overnight bag. 

“Ah, good. I must admit I have missed you terribly. It’s been a dull few days here.”

“I missed you, too, James,” Francis said, heading toward the bedroom and gesturing for James to follow, anxious to unpack his bag, so that he would be able to relax. “Next time I visit Whitby, you ought to join me, James,” he said. “It’s a charming little village. Nothing as glamourous as London, of course, but I think you would enjoy the excursion, nonetheless.”

Francis opened his suitcase and began removing its contents, making a small pile for the laundry bin, one for the wash basin, and one for the wardrobe. “Come to think of it, there was one piece of news Thomas shared with me, though,” he said. “You remember the lighthouse on Lundy Island, don’t you? There’s an opening for a lighthouse keeper, and I have half a mind to take up the post.” 

“Oh? Well I suppose it would be quite a change, but it would certainly be private.”

“That’s what I thought as well,” Francis said, pleased that James seemed to understand his need for solitude. Foolish of Thomas to think that James would be _upset_ by the idea. Thomas Blanky might have been nearly clairvoyant in his understanding of Francis’ own inner workings, but he didn’t know James the way Francis did. “London is fine for most, I suppose,” he continued, “but I feel suffocated here. Everywhere I go, there are people watching, judging, taking your measure.”

“And to be all alone out there… Well, I’d miss civilization and all the comforts of the city, I’m sure,” James said. “I suppose there is a certain _romance_ in having an island only to ourselves and the sea birds.”

“Precisely. And I thought--” Francis’ words were cut short by the realization that James had said “ourselves.” It had never even crossed his mind that James would want to _join_ him on the lonely island, but he had to admit that the notion was not an unpleasant one. 

“Do you mean to say that you would consider… moving to Lundy Island with me?”

“Of course, Fancis. Why wouldn’t I?”

Francis was at a loss. “Oh, I only thought that… Well… City life suits you so well, James. You’ve always enjoyed the finer aspects of society. I assumed that you would wish to stay here, in London.”

“Francis you know that ever since- That being back here has weighed on me, too. I doubt I’d manage being here alone again. Lundy is a rather severe alternative, but I’m sure I will-”

Francis’ heart ached to hear the vulnerability in his friend’s voice. “Of course, James,” he said, turning to offer his full attention. “I’m sorry. I should have thought… I have no doubt that you could make yourself at home on the island.” 

Ever since the day that James told him about his past, Francis had felt protective of him. He understood the magnitude of that gesture - the willingness to make himself transparent, trusting Francis not to belittle or cast him aside. Now that James had made this statement, there was no way that Francis could deny him, nor did he want to. 

“There’s no guarantee that they’ll accept me for the position, you understand. That is to say… accept _us._ But I think it’s worth trying, if you’re certain this is what you want.”

“I am.”

“Then I’ll send an inquiry first thing tomorrow.” 

“Perfect. Perhaps I should help you write it.”

Francis gave him a quizzical look, one brow arched. He considered arguing that he was perfectly capable of writing his own application letter, but James seemed to earnest in his desire to help, and he certainly did have a way with words…

“Yes, alright. That would be lovely,” he said. 

~~~~~

One Month Later

The morning sun filtered through the small windows of the lighthouse cottage. The thick wood planks and simple white plaster walls felt more bright and alive to James than any stuffy, gilded rooms in London. Outside, the sea glistened, calling to him through the window, reminding James of his early days at sea. The happy days, when he was all dreams of adventure and fame, not yet crushed by Arctic ice. This place was both novelty and nostalgia. And then there was Francis. 

James stopped in the sunlit doorway to the kitchen, watching Francis strain to open a jar of preserves. He held it up to the light, studying the seal, turning the jar over in his hand. 

“This blood thing,” Francis murmured. He slammed it back down on the counter, using his full weight to pry the lid off. He traced the rim with his finger and brought it up to his lips to taste. 

Francis opened the bread box and reached for the loaf, ignoring the scones James had baked the day before. 

_Did he see the scones?_ James thought. He didn’t want to interrupt Francis. Not when he was just preparing breakfast, so peacefully. James knew this would turn to some meaningless conflict the moment he made his presence known.

Francis reached up into the cabinet and grabbed the white tea tin, the Darjeeling. James’ tea. He opened it and scooped one teaspoon into the teapot. Just enough to steep two cups, and not a leaf more. He brought the pot over to the small table where they dined. He set it down between their two teacups.

James felt something brush against his leg. He looked down to see an orange blur rush past him and hop onto the table behind Francis. 

“Morning, Tad,” Francis said, without turning around. “Shouldn’t you be keeping James company?” He turned around to give the cat a scratch behind the ears and jumped, startled. “Oh! James… You startled me. I didn’t realize… How long have you been standing there?”

James leaned against the doorway and smiled. “Well good morning to you, Francis. Don’t worry, I was only here a moment.” He gazed at Francis, admiring how the sunlight brought out the red tones in Francis’ hair. 

Francis rearranged his expression once he’d gotten over his shock. “James, will you please get your cat off the table?” 

“My cat? He was here before we arrived, if anything it’s his table and we are the guests in _his_ lighthouse castle.” James looked down at the cat and his prominent brows and stern eyes. “Besides, I think you’ll have a better shot at getting through to him. My, I’ve never seen a cat so absorbed in the brown study.”

Francis frowned at James, crossing his arms like a sulky schoolboy. “I don’t know what you mean,” he grumbled. 

“Oh, Francis, I was only teasing.” James walked over to him and placed his hand on Francis’ shoulder. “I meant no offence.”

Francis stared down at James hand on his shoulder for a long, hard moment. 

James pulled his hand away. Was it unwelcome there? _Alright then, wrong approach._ “Shall we have breakfast then? Did you see the scones I made?” 

“You made scones?” Francis asked, suddenly dropping the pout. “No, I didn’t see. Where are they?”

“They’re right above that loaf of bread! For God’s sake Francis, I left them there for you so you’d be able to find them in the morning.”

“It’s a little hard to find something I didn’t know I was looking for,” he said, turning to look in the spot James had indicated. “Oh, yes, here they are. They look good.” He pulled out the scones and placed them on the dish he’d put a slice of bread on and carried them to the table.James sighed. He settled down at the table, reaching to pet Tad. “You know, I was thinking...”

Francis interrupted him. “I wish you would have asked me before doing this, James. You know, we have a limited amount of supplies until the boat comes out again, and I hadn’t planned on us going through the butter so quickly.”

“Francis you know those rations were intended for four keepers, I doubt we’ll even have hope of running out by the time the supply ship arrives.” It angered James, how ungrateful Francis was, how he could only be _rational_ about this all now. Why can’t they cook elaborate meals? Who’s to stop them? “Whoever put you in charge of our supplies anyway. This isn’t the Navy anymore, there’s only two of us here and you’re not in command. I can make the butter decisions, at the very least.” 

“I’m not saying you’re not capable of making decisions, James. But just because we have enough butter now doesn’t mean that we aren’t going to need more later.” 

“It’ll just go to waste is we don’t use it. We have enough to make scones every day, and put butter on top, if we so wished!”

Francis waved a hand dismissively. “All I’m saying is that we need to be adjusting to a different way of life here. We’re not in London anymore, where you can simply walk down the street to the boula...boulang… the bakery and grab a dozen scones just because you fancy them one morning.”

“I am making an adjustment, I’m baking them myself. I’m hardly strolling down the street to the _boulangerie_ , or anywhere else for that matter, to buy anything here, am I.” _And frankly, I think you should appreciate all the effort I’m putting in._

“You’re right, of course. I know you’ve made a great many sacrifices in coming to this place. I apologize.” He pushed the plate in front of him across the table to James. “I never was fond of scones anyway. Here. You have mine.” 

“Is there anything you _are_ fond of, Francis? By all means, tell me.” 

Francis sighed and shook his head. “I’m quite content making do with the basics.”

“This isn’t the Arctic, Francis. Why are you trying to make it be?” James stared down at his hands, half expecting to see frostbite there again. “Just because we’ve survived worse things doesn’t mean we need to live like that again.

“It’s just habit, James. Does one not bring one’s habits to a lighthouse?”

“I still don’t understand what that means, Francis.” James sighed. He turned to stare out the window at the sea. “I don’t understand much here these days.” 

“Don’t be angry, James,” Francis said, sitting back in his chair. “We’ll settle into a routine soon enough. By the way, on the subject of supplies… I was thinking…” He paused, as if weighing whether to speak his mind, but then continued. “The weather is turning colder, and I thought we could save on coal for the fire if we were to share a bed. For warmth, you know.” 

_Share a bed? For warmth?_ “Francis are you saying...” No, this must be him being rational again, saving coal, and all. They’d shared a bed before, this was no different. _Or is it?_ James longed for warmth, he hadn’t felt it in the two weeks here. But most of all, he longed for Francis. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” Francis said, and gave him a smile. “I know it’s a little cramped in these beds, but it does get damp and drafty in the night, and it isn’t as if you and I haven’t shared a bed before.” He picked up the slice of bread and took a bite out of it.

“Yes, of course.” It was better than separate beds in separate rooms. At least James could have _something_. 

Francis nodded. “Well, that’s all settled.” Francis took a sip of his tea and screwed up his face. “I don’t know how you drink this stuff, James. It tastes like leafy bath water.” 

James sighed and lifted his hand to rub his temple. “Francis you know there’s a tin of Assam I ordered for you, it’s the red one right next to the Darjeeling.” 

“Oh, really? Well, that was very thoughtful of you. But there’s no sense in making two pots of tea, anyway.” He took another sip and made another face. “What sort of a name is that, anyway? Darjeeling… It’s sort of fun to say, now that I think of it. It sounds as though someone started to say ‘Darling,’ and threw in an extra syllable just to be dramatic.” 

“It’s a town in India, in the Himalayan foothills,” James said. But his mind only focused on the way Francis said ‘darling’. _I wish he’d call me darling._

“Oh, yes, I see,” Francis said. “Well, I suppose I’d better get on with my chores for the day.”

“Right, of course.” _So eager to run away._ James reached his hand out, not even thinking, and placed it on Francis’ arm on the other side of the table. He stared at it, neither of them moving. _What am I doing?_ James pulled away. 

Francis cleared his throat and pushed his chair back from the table. “Right. I’ll just… go and… begin my chores.” He stood up and threw one last nervous glance back at James before walking out of the room.

James leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall back. He felt the brush of soft fur against his hand. “Oh, Tad. Help me Tad!” 

The cat leapt up into his lap. James watched as Tad hesitantly placed one paw on the table and reached for the scone Francis rejected. James broke off a piece and gave it to him, scratching his back with his other hand. “At least someone likes my baking, huh?” 

James finished his cup of tea, picked up Tad in one arm and the plate of scones in the other and proceeded up the stairs. He entered the spare bedroom he’d made into his study, letting Tad down onto the desk amongst all the sketches of the island wildlife. He picked up the habit from Henry Goodsir, and now he couldn’t stop drawing - he’d have to send some back to London with the next supply ship.

James felt a chill. He walked back to his room and took the sweater Francis had lent him, pulling it over his own. He returned and settled in the chair and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began writing under Tad’s watchful eye.

The hours passed, Tad grew blasé and left, the sun rose and once again began its descent. But James sat writing away at the countless letters he’d failed to send detailing his sudden departure from society. Amongst the excitement and the panic, the only souls that knew where he was bound were Goodsir and Dundy. James wasn’t Francis; he couldn’t disappear from the world so easily. His absence would be noted. Even with a notice, few would believe he would uproot his life so severely to take up post as a lighthouse keeper on Lundy. 

But he too grew tired of all the customs and niceties, and his letters turned to poems. 

> _In the white tower he watches and waits,_
> 
> _The great sea captain, all alone._

The lines came to James as mellow waves rocking a ship. 

> _At night his light guides ships through the perilous straits,_
> 
> _But in the daytime he forgets he is not on his own_
> 
> _No longer at sea, does he not long for something more?_

James’ hand got ahead of him, twirling out the words in his print, _so why not love me, Francis? Why not love me, not leave me on the shore?_

A tear fell from James’ eye onto the paper, turning Francis’ name to a blur. 

James needed air. He ran down the stairs and out the door of the lighthouse, into the chilling breeze. 

_What are we doing here?_ James thought as he stared out at the sea breaking over the cliffs. He thought back to all those stolen moments in that matchbox London flat, the sleepless nights spent together in one bed when there was another perfectly good one available, and the way Francis’ hand lingered on his for comfort. Now Francis chose to keep his distance. _Out here, on the edge of the world!_ Here, where there was no one to sneak up on them but the sea itself. 

Two weeks here and it was almost as if, with no secret to keep, Francis lost all interest. _He wanted me here. Why doesn’t he want me?_ What was the purpose of running away from society to this place together if that’s all this was to Francis? _He just wanted to run away from it all, and I was tolerable company. I was just convenient, the practical option._

The weight of his misunderstanding pulled at his heart like a falling anchor, threatening to pull him over the cliffs and into the sea. 

James turned towards the lighthouse. It’s pale bricks stood out amongst the vast endless greens and blues of the land and sea that surrounded them. Francis must be up there tending to the light, though to James it felt more like he was hiding. 

He wrapped his arms around himself as he shivered. He felt the coarse wool of Francis’ sweater over top of his own. Now James was starting to wonder if being wrapped up in Francis’ sweater was going to be the closest he’d ever get to Francis touching him.

James walked back up the road, along the ancient wall that predated all else on this island. He pulled open the heavy door into the lighthouse. He could hear the echo of water dripping from the stone steps that spiraled their way up to the light, up to Francis. The rain was heavy the night before, and James worried about the cold and its effect on Francis’ knees. 

“Francis?” he called, his voice bouncing back as he stared up at the stones for any sign of life.

James gripped the railing and made his way up. “Francis, are you up there?” 

~~~~~

“Just a moment, James,” Francis called down to James. “I’m just finishing up here.” 

Francis had lost track of how long he’d been in the lantern room, up at the top of the lighthouse, polishing the lenses, checking and re-checking the oil level, making sure the wick was trimmed in just the way he wanted it, for optimal burning and fuel efficiency. In truth, he could have been finished long ago, but sometimes it felt as though this was the only place he could be at peace with himself, so he had taken time to sweep and mop the floor and perform the various other maintenance jobs he normally only performed once a month. 

The truth was that he’d been feeling vaguely uneasy ever since breakfast. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy James’ company. He cared a great deal for James, and took comfort in the companionship they shared. They’d been through so much together, and had come to rely on one another a great deal. But there were times when a man needed to be alone and not have to worry about superfluous things like… _feelings_ and... _conversation_. 

Francis made one final check over the lamp and then made his way to the Watch Room where he stowed his supplies in their cabinet, each in it designated spot. Once everything was in order, Francis began to make his way down the long, narrow stairway, cringing slightly as his knee made that worrisome sound every few steps, as it often did when the weather turned cold and damp. 

He could make out the shape of James standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the rail in his typically dramatic fashion, all boyish charm and windswept curls. Francis often wondered why the man spent such inordinate amounts of time styling his hair when he knew very well that it would just get tossed around by the wind within an hour of waking. The was always a strong ocean breeze on the island, no matter what the weather. 

“There you are, Francis, I was starting to worry.”

“I must have lost track of the time. Apologies, James,” Francis said when he reached the landing. _Why am I being so formal,_ he wondered. The atmosphere between them just felt… _different_ somehow since they’d arrived at Lundy, though he couldn’t put a finger on what, specifically, had changed. Their meal just that morning, for example, had been tense and awkward, and ended in them bickering about things that didn’t even matter, in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps that was part of his reason for retreating to his lantern room sanctuary so often: he didn’t like the unsteady feeling of not being in control of his environment.

“Are you hungry, James?” he asked, pushing his uncomfortable thoughts aside. “I was just about to check the traps. I thought I might boil lobster for our supper.”

“Yes, quite famished. Lobster sounds perfect.” 

He gave James a weary smile as he slipped by him. “Let’s hope we’ve caught a good one today. Come and give me a hand, will you, James?” 

The salty sea spray kissed his face as Francis walked outside, and there was a chill in the air that hadn’t been present a few days before. He made the short hike down to the shoreline where the floating buoys marked the location of the lobster traps. He pulled them out onto the rocky beach to find two lobsters in one of the traps, antennae twitching and one large claw pinching the wooden slats in a futile effort to break free. Francis flashed James a triumphant grin as he opened the hatch and reached in to pull one out by the tail. He handed it over to James while he collected the second. 

James held the lobster out at arm’s length, watching it flail about as it dangled by its tail from between thumb and forefinger. He jumped slightly when one of the claws tried to take a nip at his hand but he held on tight. 

Francis caught the movement from the corner of his eye, and turned to check that James hadn’t stumbled. “Everything alright?” he asked, one brow arched inquiringly.

“Yes perfectly fine. We’re getting along quite swimmingly here,” James replied, glaring at the lobster.

Francis chuckled but didn’t press the matter, quickly resetting the traps with his free hand and placing them back in the water. He stood to his full height with a muffled grunt of protest at his temperamental knee, and turned back toward the lighthouse, hoping James hadn’t heard. “Alright, then. Let’s get these beauties on the cooker.”

Back inside, James stood framed in the kitchen doorway,, still holding the lobster as far away from himself as he could. Francis’ eyes darted up and down the length of James’ body, and he realized for the first time that day that James was wearing one of his old sweaters. The realization had an odd effect on him - a sort of warming, tightening in his chest; it was endearing.

“Are you cold, James?” he asked, nodding at the garment.

“Yes, but I think I’m always cold now, after...” James stopped, staring at some spot on the wall behind Francis. 

Francis understood and was eager to change the subject, to spare James the pain of remembering. He had the sudden urge to cross the space between them and wrap James in his arms - to keep him safe and warm, but he remained where he was, feeling helpless, old, and useless. What could he ever possibly do for James - what could he say that would heal the wounds they both carried from their time in the Arctic? He thought in that moment, that James didn’t belong here. He belonged somewhere warm and comfortable, with a lover by his side - not out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by jagged rocks and ice cold crashing waves, with only an old man for company.

“Francis, perhaps I should help you with supper tonight...” James said.

Francis gave him a grimace of disdain. “I appreciate the offer, of course, but you know just as well as I that there’s not room for the both of us in that tiny kitchen. I can manage just fine on my own.” He wondered what had prompted the proposition, but was almost afraid to learn the answer. Did he appear so frail to the younger man? This was an unpleasant thought - perhaps more unpleasant than it should have been. 

“Alright, if you’re sure.”

“Of course I am,” Francis insisted, a little defensively. “I’ve been cooking for myself since I was six years old, and I’m not about to start shoving the chore off on someone else now. I’m not as old as all that, James.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice that he regretted almost instantly, but it was done, without any way to take it back. Maybe James hadn’t noticed. 

“No, Francis, I wasn’t insinuating… I just thought you could- Ah, never mind,” James said, with a pout. “I’ll leave you to it.”

James dropped his lobster into a large pot and pulled his hand away as quickly as he could. He turned and walked towards the stairs. 

“James…” he called after him, feeling sorry for his defensive tone. After all, James had only offered to help him. But when James looked back at him, Francis could find no words to say, so he just sighed with his shoulders slumping. “I’ll call you when supper’s ready,” he said. His only reply was the sound of the door to the second level being forcefully shut.

With a heavy sigh, Francis turned back to the stove. He tossed a few new potatoes into the pot with the lobsters and set the pot on the burner. He felt badly for hurting James’ feelings, more so with each passing moment that James was absent from the kitchen. Francis had always taken pride in his cooking, and he was happy to do this one thing for James, at least. He might not be the best at making conversation, but he could cook their meals, and he hoped that James understood that this was a way for Francis to express his warmth of feeling for him, even though he fell short in so many other areas.

~~~~~

James opened the dresser drawer and lifted out the knitted monstrosity that filled it entirely. He could hear Francis mumbling something downstairs as he slumped into an armchair by the fire and began knitting where he left off.

The sweater was almost done, it was already too long for Francis, but James wasn’t ready to let go of it yet. He’s heard of the tale, the knitters’ curse: if you intend to make a sweater for your sweetheart, you will surely part ways before it is done. _Well, what if we aren’t even together in the first place, huh? What happens then?_

James felt tension on the yarn. He looked down to see the large orange tabby playing with the ball. 

“Oh no, Tad! We’ve talked about this!” 

The cat looked up at him and meowed loudly. He looked so _disappointed_. So much like Francis.

A pot or pan crashed to the ground downstairs, startling them both. 

Tad stared up at James and then turned to the door. 

“I know, Tad. The kitchen is a dangerous place right now.“

James worried about Francis. It frustrated him that Francis wouldn’t accept his help. Everything James said to him came out wrong, or at least Francis took it wrong. 

This was a step back from the arctic, like they were on two different ships again, frozen in place, just out of reach of each other, even in the same room. 

“James! Come and eat!” Francis called from downstairs. 

James sighed. He picked up his blanket of a knitting project and took it back into his room, letting it fall into the designated drawer. He made his way to the staircase. 

James began down the stairs, looking back at Tad. “Come Tad, shall we go eat?”

Tad ran up ahead of James, disappearing at the foot of the stairs. James could hear his mews coming from the kitchen. 

James stopped in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs to see Francis bent at the waist, scratching the cat behind the ears ears, offering a few soft words of affection. 

“I see Tad beat me,” James said. 

“Yes, well, I’m afraid neither of us is quite as fast as our little friend here,” Francis said, straightening. “Come and sit,” Francis gestured toward the small table and chairs. “It’s warm by the stove, anyway.” 

“Yes, of course.” James put on a smile as he sat down. He tried, at least, but one look from Francis, and James knew he wasn’t convinced.

Francis placed the larger of the two lobsters and a boiled potato on James’ plate before sitting down on the other side of the table.

James cracked open the body of the lobster. He broke off a piece and leaned down under the table, gazing at the cat. “Do you like Lobster, Tad? I’m sure you do. Good boy.”

Francis glanced back up at James. “You know, I didn’t give you the bigger lobster so you could feed it to the cat,” he teased.

“It’s just a little bit. He deserves it. Besides, I can’t imagine there are many mice left around here. He’s very diligent.”

“That’s true,” Francis conceded. “He is a good mouser. But don’t give him too much of the lobster.” He frowned. “You do like it, don’t you?”

James’ lips formed a tight line. _How do I say this delicately..._ “It’s- yes. I do. Although, we could try using some seasoning next time. Perhaps some garlic, or something with lemon?”

“Seasoning? I used salt and pepper and I thought it tasted just fine.” He glanced doubtfully at the lobster on his plate, and then at James’ plate. “Garlic and lemon…” he grumbled, cracking open his own lobster tail. “I suppose you think you could do better?” He speared a tender chunk of the lobster tail and brought it to his lips.

“No, I’m just offering ways in which we could improve it even more, be a bit more adventurous with our cooking while we’re here. How about this, you let me help you cook next time, and if you hate it I’ll let you do it your way, and you won’t hear a word about it from me.” James smiled, confident in his wager.

“That’s fair enough, I suppose,” he conceded. “And anyway, I’m curious to see just how long you would last without saying a word.” 

“I’m sure you would be.” 

“Well, that’s settled then.” He grinned back at James and then returned his attention to the food. 

The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence, each of them finishing their lobster, and James passing surreptitious morsels to Tad whenever he thought Francis wasn’t looking. When they had finished eating, Francis stood and collected their plates and took them to the sink to wash. He pumped some fresh water into the basin and began the washing process. James enjoyed these little domestic rituals, when each of them knew what was expected of them and could complete the task without fear of failure or misunderstanding. 

Francis rinsed the first plate and handed it to James to dry. Out of the corner of his eye, James caught a glimpse of a moth flying towards the lamp.

Tad jumped onto the table and began making a sound that started off as a staccato rhythmic chirping, but then deepened into a full-throated growl.

James could see Francis shiver. “What’s gotten into--” But before Francis could finish the sentence, Tad jumped straight up in the air, his tail as big as a bottle brush, and shot out of the room like a bolt of lightning. Francis turned to James.

“Oh, he’s just hunting something, Francis,” James said, looking back down at his dish. “Some insects got in.”

“Are you sure, James? That doesn’t seem… normal.” 

“Well, you’ll soon learn that abnormal behaviour is perfectly normal for cats.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that this island was cursed,” he grumbled as he turned back to the sink.

“Oh it probably is, if a place ever was,” James said without even looking up. “I did some digging on the history of this place before we left London. This very lighthouse was built on a burial ground from the fourth century.”

Francis dropped the dish into the soapy water and turned to stare at him. “And you didn’t think to mention this to me _before_ we moved out here?” 

“My, don’t tell me that Captain Francis Crozier is scared of ghosts?” _This is an interesting turn of events._

“No, of course not!” he said, though his voice was not convincing.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to hear the history. I know _how you bore_ of my stories,”James said, looking away from Francis and back to the plate he was drying. 

“Well, I think this is a special instance, seeing as how we are actually living here. What else are you not telling me about this island?”

“This place has far more history than I could possibly recount in one evening, even being brief. That wall out there that leads along the road, that marks the edge of the cemetery. Then the Knight’s Templar were stationed here in the twelfth century. There’s a castle not to far away from here where a criminal family fled from the law in the thirteenth century. They built the walls to be nine feet thick, makes you wonder what they wanted to keep out. They didn’t keep out Henry III, however, when his men led an assault and arrested the family. The story only gets stranger from there.”

“Nine feet thick?” he asked, scrubbing hard at the plate in his hand.

“Indeed. I’ve been meaning to go and find it, see what remains of the legends for myself. Perhaps you should join me?”

“Are you certain that’s wise, James? What if it’s unsafe? A ruin from the thirteenth century could be dangerous…”

“If those walls are truly nine feet thick, I would think they’d hold up quite well.” _Francis surely couldn’t argue with that logic._

“Well, if you must go, then I’ll be damned if you’re going alone. I’ll join you.” 

James grinned to himself. “Marvelous. How about the day after tomorrow?”

Grudgingly, Francis agreed. “Very well. The day after tomorrow.” 

~~~~~

By the time Francis had completed his final check on the light for the night and returned to the residence, James was already in his room. Francis stood in the hallway, gazing at the closed door. It had gotten late, and James was likely fast asleep. Francis wished he could go in to him, but he reasoned that there was no need to wake him.. He sighed wearily and moved to the end of the hall to browse the row of books on their shared bookshelf. He needed to calm his mind with some light reading and then to get some sleep. His fingertips trailed lightly over the spines of the leatherbound works and paused on a small volume with a moleskin cover. Curious, he slid the book free and glanced inside. 

What he held in his hand seemed to be a journal or log book of some kind. There was a name and date on the inside front cover: “Thomas Wake, 1842”. This was just what he needed - something to take his mind off of his foolish imagination and perhaps pick up some knowledge of the island with which he could impress James when they went exploring.

Francis tucked the book under his arm and started toward his bedroom, but his eye caught on the painting which hung on the wall. He had walked past this painting countless times over the past couple weeks, and each time he looked at it, it bothered him more. 

One of James' paintings, it portrayed a beachscape with crashing waves in the distance. The shapes of sea birds were silhouetted, black against a pale sky above. In the foreground, there stood a man with his back to the viewer. He was dressed finely, with one booted foot propped on a large rock, looking as though he owned everything upon which he gaze fell. 

Francis knew it was foolish, but every time he looked at the painting, he was tormented by uncertainty. Why would James paint a portrait of a man and not show his face? Who was this mysterious man, and why had James chosen him for the subject of his painting? Furthermore, why was this painting, in particular, so important to James that he would hang it in such a prominent place? Of course, Francis knew it would be simple enough to ask James these questions, but something always stopped him. Perhaps he was afraid of what the answer might be. 

At a glance, the man in the portrait could have passed for Francis, himself. But surely such a thought was ridiculous. Why would James have painted _him_? He'd never posed for such a picture. Besides, with only the man's back to go by, he could be anyone, and how foolish would Francis appear if he were to presume that James had painted him, only to find out that the man in question was actually Sir James Ross, or one of James' boyhood friends. Perhaps an officer or gentleman he'd looked up to as a younger man. Still… it _could_ be Francis… 

Francis knew his obsession with learning the identity of the man in the portrait was irrational, and that fact alone made him annoyed with himself. Yet, try as he might, he could not pass by the painting without pausing in front of it and staring at it, thinking that maybe - just maybe - when the light hit it at a certain angle, or if he squinted his eyes and turned his head just so, the identity of the man might be revealed.

With a sigh, Francis finally turned away from the painting and slipped into his bedroom, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

Francis awoke some hours later in complete darkness. His lamp had burned out, and the journal he'd been reading was laying open on his chest. He closed the book and set it on the nightstand. The room was cold, and he tugged the blankets up around himself, but couldn't get comfortable. The journal, which he had thought would be tedious enough to lull him to sleep, had turned out to be filled with stories of hauntings, curses, murder, and monsters. It was a wonder that Francis had been able to fall asleep at all, and now that he was awake, every whistle of the wind, every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the eaves became an ominous foreboding of something horrifying . He shivered again, though whether his chill was from the cold or the anxious creeping feeling in the pit of his stomach, he wasn't sure. 

Francis thought of James, asleep in the other bedroom. Instantly, he decided that he should be there with him. Lately, he'd been noticing more and more that James was often cold in the lighthouse. It _was_ drafty and poorly insulated, and James, by his nature, was simply more likely to be tormented by the cold than Francis was. Ergo, if Francis was cold, then James must be freezing.

This logic was sufficient motivation (or excuse) for Francis climb out of bed and creep across the hall to James' room. He pressed his ear to the door and listened for any sign that James might be awake, but all he could make out was the soft sound of James' deep and steady breath. _Just as well_ , Francis thought. _No need to waken him_. He twisted the doorknob and stepped inside silently, moving on tiptoes across the floor like a giant cat. 

James looked so peaceful with the blanket tucked right up around his head, the covers rising and falling steadily with his breath. Francis smiled as he carefully pulled back the covers and slipped into the bed behind James, draping one arm over his waist and cuddling up to him. Immediately, he felt warm and safe and content, and with a soft sigh, he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

~~~~~

James woke surrounded by warmth. He opened his eyes. Tad was curled up in his arms, purring softly. James felt the weight of the arm around his waist, the breath on the back of his neck, and the heat of Francis’ body against him. He smiled to himself.

The light was starting to shine in through the small window. It started with a soft orange glow over the horizon, signaling that the hours of the lighthouse were over. James longed to be able to stay in bed long enough to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin along with the figures on either side of him. 

James didn’t want to rise quite yet, he wanted to stay in the small warm bed in between his two sleeping companions. He wanted to put his hand on Francis, but if he did it would certainly wake him. Then Francis would pull away, and this little moment would be over. So, James brushed his hand through Tad’s soft fur. 

He could feel Francis stirring behind him, and in a moment the hand around his waist was gone. He felt the mattress shift as Francis sat up, he was probably stretching in that languid way he did when he thought no one was watching. The bed shifted again as Francis got up to leave.

“Good morning Francis, fancy seeing you here?” James said. _Was that too much?_ Was that too familiar? James couldn’t have known _why_ Francis came crawling into his bed in the middle of the night.

Francis startled. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were awake, James,” he said somewhat awkwardly, his eyes lingering on the rollers in James’ hair for a moment. “The sun’s coming up. I should have tended the light an hour ago.”

“It’s just one morning, Francis. It couldn’t have done any harm.”

“No, it’s my duty to see to the light.” His eyes strayed to the curlers again. “Do you always sleep with those things in your hair?”

“Yes. I would think you would have realized that by now.”

“Well...yes, I suppose, but…” He grew flustered. “I only meant that… You and I are the only people on this island, James. Who are you getting so dolled up for? The puffins surely won’t notice if you have a curl out of place.”

 _He must know. How could he not?_ James stared back at Francis. “I’m doing this precisely because it is only you and I here. Surely you must know that?” 

Francis frowned. “But this isn't the state of you I want to be seeing in the morning.” 

“Oh? Then what state of me do you want to be seeing in the morning, Francis?” James smiled and leaned back against the pillows, wrapping one arm around Tad. He didn’t think; he never did around Francis anymore. James could feel his own smile fading as he thought over what he just said out loud. 

Francis sputtered and he flushed slightly, his gaze bouncing from place to place, trying not to look directly at James. “That isn’t what I meant… I just…” He made a vague gesture toward the bed. “This is all very... distracting... No, I have work to do. I shouldn’t be here.” 

“Well, you were the one who crawled into _my_ bed last night, if you recall,” James said. _Why am I still trying so hard?_ Francis would never appreciate any of it, if he even noticed. “And I’m under the impression that you enjoyed it.” 

Francis gaped at him with an unreadable expression. He stood frozen like that for a moment, blinked, and then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the room.

James sighed. He turned to Tad who still remained pressed against him and leaned down to kiss him between the ears. 

He stood up and faced himself in the mirror. The curlers covered his head. _It doesn't look that bad. Does it?_

Slowly, he started taking them out one by one. 


	2. Chapter 2

Francis slumped against the railing at the top of the tower, winded from climbing the stairs so quickly. He’d grabbed a sweater on his way out of James’ bedroom, but now he found that he was too warm to even consider putting it on. He dragged a shirtsleeve across his brow and sighed. 

Why was it that he allowed James to get under his skin like that? Yes, he had climbed into his bed the night before, and yes, he probably had overslept because he’d been so warm and comfortable. But none of that was James’ fault. He thought of the look on James’ face when he said, _Oh? Then what state of me do you want to be seeing in the morning, Francis?_ It had seemed almost suggestive to Francis - flirtatious, even. Had James been mocking him? Making some kind of insinuation about Francis’ intentions? The truth was that James had been right about one thing, at least. He _had_ liked it. It felt good to be close to him in the night. But that was just the way their friendship worked, drawing strength and comfort from one another when they needed it. 

Ever since they’d arrived on the island, things had been shifting, and nothing made sense to him. More and more, he felt that James was taunting him, but he couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. Their relationship, even at its most antagonistic, had not been intentionally cruel.

Heaving himself up to his full height, Francis extinguished the lantern’s flame. He went through the motions of his morning routine while his mind continued to spin. His stomach growled and he realized that he ought to go downstairs and get some breakfast, but he couldn’t handle being near James just yet. He needed to get his feelings well in check before he went back down.

Francis managed to stretch the remainder of his chores in the lantern room out for another hour. By the time he’d polished the lenses twice, scrubbed down the flooring, refilled the oil, and drawn all the blinds, his stomach was growling and his knees were shaky. He knew from experience that if he didn’t get something to eat soon, he would have trouble getting down the stairs without stumbling. So, he quickly stowed his supplies and started down.

When he finally reached the door that led into the second story sitting area, he paused. Francis mentally prepared himself for what he might find on the other side. He strained to hear, but all he could make out was a soft clicking sound. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Whatever he might have imagined seeing in the sitting room, it was certainly not the image that presented itself to him. James sat with a blanket across his lap and Tad at his feet. He moved his long hands in small quick motions that Francis could barely follow, and had no hope of ever duplicating. Looking closer, Francis realized that this blanket had _sleeves_.

James looked up at him with a deep scowl. The anger in James’ eyes Francis only recognized from their first year frozen in the ice. Back when James hated him, and Francis had him all wrong. They hadn’t regressed that far, had they? They stared at each other for a long moment before Francis finally broke the silence.

“I was just about to start meal preparations,” he said vaguely, his mind still puzzling over the thing in James’ lap and the scowl with which he was being regarded. “If you… still wanted to help?”

James scowl faded to a neutral expression that Francis couldn’t read - the one James made when he didn’t _want_ to be read. “Yes, I will help,” James said. He set the _item_ aside and stood from the chair, Tad joyfully hopping up to take his spot.

The pair of them made their way down to the kitchen. “We’ve got some fresh fish in the cold storage that I thought I would boil,” Francis suggested. 

“You’re going to boil it again?” James asked, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. 

“What’s wrong with boiling? It does the job!” 

“It certainly does, but it leaves the food quite tasteless. Have you considered more creative methods while we still have a variety of supplies from the mainland? Once winter hits and we run out of everything but fish and preserves, we can revisit boiling”

Francis cast him a doubtful glance. “What do you mean by creative methods?”

“Why don’t we bake a pie?” 

“A pie? Isn’t that a little… _involved_? If we do it my way, we can just toss the fish into the boiling water and eat it a few minutes later. Simple.” 

“Hardly, Francis. A fish pie is one of the simplest things to make. We have more flour than we can hope to know what to do with, plenty of potatoes, and I’ve brought just the right seasonings.”

Francis thought about arguing against this plan, but then he remembered the glare with which James had fixed him moments earlier. Francis knew he had behaved badly that morning. The least he could do was to go along with this suggestion. “Alright, James. A pie it shall be.”

James opened his mouth to protest, as if he wasn’t expecting Francis to agree. “Right, then. I’ll go fetch the fish. You can start on the dough.” 

Francis measured out the flour and started the lard and water heating on the stove top. By the time James returned with the fish, he was kneading the dough and beginning to shape it into a crust. 

James put the fish down on the counter. He’d wrapped it in paper. “This is your job.”

Francis looked over at the wrapped fish, then grinned at James. “Oh, I see how things are going to be,” he said. “Alright. I’ll take care of the fish.” 

With the fish gutted and filleted, Francis set them aside and turned to James. “Alright, what next?”

James sat at the table peeling the last of the potatoes. “You can start chopping these into cubes, about a centimeter wide.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Francis said, transferring a couple of the freshly peeled potatoes to the cutting board. He selected a large knife and commenced hacking away at the first potato. “How’s that?” he asked, holding up a chunk about the size of a walnut, and nearly the same shape. Ok, it wasn’t _exactly_ a centimeter square, but it was close enough, to his estimation.

James looked up at him, his lips forming that tight line again. “Can I show you something?”

“Yes, of course,” Francis said.

James stood from the chair and walked up to Francis. He paced one hand on his left shoulder, and stood right behind him. James’ other hand wrapped around Francis’ on the knife. “Now, first of all, you’re holding the knife like a dead weight. You’ve held swords Francis, I’m sure you know better than that.”

Francis’ body tensed at the close proximity. He’d expected James to stand beside him and demonstrate, and hadn’t been prepared for this level of physical contact. He willed himself to relax and tried to focus on what James was saying.

James lifted his hand off the board. “And you want to slice through the potato rather than trying to crush it. The blade is sharp, use that. Slice the potato in half first so it can be set flat and not about to slip out of your hand. Cut lengthwise and then widthwise.” James leaned in closer until he was practically whispering into Francis’ ear. His chest was flush with Francis’ shoulder blades. 

“Lengthwise… then widthwise…” Francis repeated the words in a whisper, without registering the meaning behind them. All he could think about was the warmth of James’ breath on his neck and the sound of his voice in his ear. He allowed James’ hand to guide his own, his fingers relaxing almost to the point of allowing the knife to slip from his grasp as pleasurable chills danced up and down his spine. 

“Good. Just like that, Francis. Now let’s try the other half.” James leaned into him as he reached over to grab the rest of the potato. 

Feeling the weight of James’ body pressed against him, Francis turned his head to look at James. His face was incredibly close. Close enough that it would only take the slightest tilt of his head for their lips to meet. More alarming to Francis was the urge he felt to close the distance and make that thought become a reality. 

Francis felt something snap inside him, as if he’d been clinging to a fraying rope that had finally broken. Panicked, he released his hold on the knife, sending it clattering to the countertop, and pushed away from James, stumbling slightly. His head was spinning and he felt confused and suddenly very warm. 

“I’m sorry, James… I… I think I just need some air,” he stammered, backing away from him. 

“Francis, I apologize if I’ve overstepped...” James tried to take a step towards him but stopped.

“No. No, it’s not that… it’s… It’s fine. I just need some air.”

“Alright. Whatever you need.”

Francis turned and hurried out of the kitchen, down the stairs and outside, not stopping until he'd reached the shoreline. He flopped down on a large, flat rock, breathing heavily, and looked out over the water. 

_What is happening to me?_ He couldn't understand his own feelings. It wasn't as if he and James hadn't been close before. Yes, they had shared a bed many nights, sometimes for warmth, sometimes simply to feel the presence of another person next to them. He'd always thought of it as a survival tactic - a mutually beneficial arrangement. But what if James had thought all along that Francis was pining for him, and had allowed him into his bed out of pity? What if he'd been mocking him this whole time? He couldn't stand the thought of pity from anyone - least of all, James.

A flutter of wings drew Francis' attention, and a pair of puffins landed at his feet, gazing up at him with curiosity. These two were soon joined by others, until there were at least twelve of the sea birds milling around him. Francis had long since grown accustomed to the puffins, and had actually come to enjoy their company, though he would rarely admit such a thing. 

"Well, what are you looking at?" he barked at them. A few of the puffins ruffled their feathers, but none flew away. Francis sighed. "I just don't know what to do," he lamented. These birds were, if nothing else, very good listeners. "I can't be away from him, but I can't be near him. No matter what I do, there's this…" He paused, looking for the appropriate word. Finding none, he gave a grunt of frustration and stood to his feet. "It's just not the same. It feels...awkward, somehow. Like there's always something he's not saying - something he's keeping from me, but for the life of me, I can't figure what it is."

He turned, and the puffins trailed after him as he headed back in the direction of the lighthouse. If he was going to be out here, avoiding James, then he'd might as well get some chores done. Francis continued talking to birds as he walked.

"You know, you almost resemble him, with your shiny black feathers and your dark, soulful eyes. You're… fancy, like him, too." One of the puffins gave a low chortle. "Yes, you heard me. You're _fancy birds_ ! And James… every night he rolls his hair in curlers. Every night! As if the wind won't mess it all up the moment he steps outside. I'm lucky if I get my hair properly washed a couple times a week. It's not as though there are swarms of people here for him to impress." He paused, turning to look at his flock. "He's not... _meeting_ someone, is he? When I'm tending to the light? Could he be meeting someone? No, I'd be aware of it if a boat approached. I'd see them! Bah!" He threw his hands up, thoroughly annoyed at himself for these ridiculous thoughts. What would it matter if James _were_ meeting someone? It wasn't like Francis had any claim to him. He had every right to meet and spend time with whomever he pleased! 

When he reached the storeroom, Francis ducked inside and found a few scraps of stale bread he'd been saving from a recent meal. He carried it back outside and crumbled it between his fingers, then scattered the crumbs for the puffins. "Alright, there you go," he said, smiling as he watched them scramble for the bread. It was the least he could do, after all Francis' tirades they had suffered through.

~~~~~

James pulled the last few pies out of the oven. As he set them down on the table, Tad hopped up to investigate. 

“Tad, No!” James said, putting his hand out to stop the cat. “They’re hot, you have to wait till they cool, then you can have one.”

Tad looked him in the eye then turned and ran off. 

James sighed. He was scaring off both his companions today. _I’m done,_ James thought. He slumped into a chair feeling exhausted, and not just from baking. He’d given his all with Francis, having completely misinterpreted the whole thing. _There will never be anything I can do to make him want me. I should have been more grateful to have his friendship, instead of trying so hard to make it something more._ James wasn’t going to make it much longer out here, not alone with Francis, not when the man kept crawling into his bed in the middle of the night. 

_I better go find him -_ it was the first thought on his mind despite it all. It wasn’t just that James was starting to get worried, there were lighthouse duties to be attended to and Francis wouldn’t just ignore them like this. 

James put the pies away in the breadbox to keep Tad away from them. He made his way to the door and grabbed his wool coat. 

He walked down to the cove Francis particularly liked, one that was practically inaccessible - that was probably the point. And if Francis wasn’t there, James would search the full three miles of this island. 

James walked across beach. He could hear Francis’ voice up ahead, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. 

Francis was seated on a large rock with his back to the path, and gesticulating vigorously with his arms. It wasn't until he drew closer that James realized there was a flock of puffins gathered around Francis like children around a school mistress.

"...And every day I have to walk by that blasted painting of his. You'd think I'd have grown accustomed to the thing, but it's as if it's mocking me. Why would you make something like that, I ask you? Why would you place the subject right in the center of the image, but only show their back? It's ridiculous." 

James stopped there. _Does he really hate that painting of him so much?_ Francis never made any remark on it, that must be why. Here, James had thought such a painting of Francis, looking like a true captain gazing over the sea, would be better than a portrait. But this was yet another error in his judgment. 

James was uncertain about approaching Francis now. _I should return, take care of the lighthouse duties myself._ He was confident he could figure it out. He began to turn back, but the stones underneath his boot shifted. He was sent stumbling forwards as he tried to regain his balance. 

Francis turned around, Puffins fleeing from them both. James couldn’t back away now. 

“I.. uh… Dinner is ready and it’s time we start on the duties for the night,” James said. 

Francis looked stricken, but didn't seem to be able to form words to answer. He rose from the stone to follow as James turned away to walk back to the cottage. He didn’t look back to see if Francis was following, only the sound of his boots on the pebbles behind him offered the suggestion. James reached up to wipe a tear from his eye. He didn’t want Francis to see him cry, not now. 

James pulled the heavy door open and finally turned to see Francis behind him. 

"I ought to go and light the lantern," Francis said. His voice was soft and apologetic. "I'll just go and do that now, shall I?"

“Yes, go. I’ll set the table,” James said. He glanced back at Francis again.

Francis nodded. He lingered in the doorway, as if he wanted to say something else, but then turned and exited with a final glance over his shoulder at James.

James walked up the steps into the kitchen. He gathered the plates and utensils on the small table and let out a long sigh. 

_First my hair, now my painting? He won’t like my cooking either - it’s hopeless._

James sat at the set table, watching Tad on the other chair ready to pounce into Francis’ plate. James had half the mind to let him, to tell Francis is was an accident. It would be so _easy_ , so _simple_ … 

The door swung open and Francis stepped into the room. His gaze fell on the cat in his chair and he said, "I hope you haven't fed my dinner to the cat, James." He was trying to keep his tone light, James could tell, but there was an awkwardness to it. He was trying too hard. Francis shooed the cat out of his seat and sat down at the table.

“Not yet, anyway,” James said. He tried a smile. “How are things up in _your_ tower?”

"Fine," Francis said quickly, glad for the change of subject. "I got the fire burning and everything is in order."

“Good. I’m glad.” James cut into his pie. 

Francis looked down at the pie sitting on his plate. He began to reach for it with his hand, but stopped. He cast a glance over to James’ plate before picking up his utensils and copying the motions. 

"I found a book last night that seems to be a log or journal of some kind from the previous caretaker," Francis said, staring down at the pie as he cut. "I read a little bit about your mysterious castle ruins. Sounds fascinating. Are you still up for a little adventure tomorrow?"

“Oh, you did?” Francis’ sudden enthusiasm surprised James, but he was intrigued. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

"Yes, I found it amongst our other books and thought it would make for some relaxing reading before bed last night. I'm afraid I didn't get very far, though. I was quite tired. But I'm very much looking forward to exploring the area with you and hearing what you've learned."

“We will set off after morning duties, I’ll pack us a picnic.” At least James could have this, spending the day with Francis.

"A picnic! It's been a long time since I've had a picnic. That sounds lovely, James. We'll make a day of it."

“Splendid. Not afraid of any ghost stories, I hope?”

Francis waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not. Silly nonsense, all of that. I was overtired and twitchy last night, that's all."

“Well, if you insist. The castle it is, then. This island has a long sordid history, but that of the Marisco family is perhaps the most notorious. In the eleventh century, William de Marisco, the head of the family, murdered a messenger of the king. This act wasn’t enough for him, you see, and three years later he sent an agent to kill his highness, Henry III himself.” 

Francis was fully engaged, listening intently as he ate his fish pie, his eyes closing from time to time as he chewed slowly, savoring each bite.

“But the agent was captured and confessed the identity of his employer, forcing the family to flee to Lundy where William de Marisco lived as a king over his own land. He built a stronghold on the island, the walls of which were nine feet thick - as you already know.”

"It hardly seems fair, that a man accused of trying to kill a king should set himself up as a king of his own island," Francis interjected. 

“Yes! But even he only had a few years peace in this place, for the king sent troops to scale the cliffs of the island and ambush Marisco. It was a bloody battle, but even those thick walls couldn’t help his vastly outnumbered and unprepared men. By the end of the siege, William and sixteen of his remaining subjects were arrested and hauled back to England to face punishment for their crimes,” James paused to take a breath. He couldn’t help but smile, pleased to charm Francis so with a story.

“The place remained abandoned, passing hands as time moved on and the island sat still so far from the rest of the world. In the thirteenth century, monks tried to make the castle their home, but found nothing holy in its dark echoing chambers.”

Francis leaned back in his seat and regarded James. "That's quite a story," he said. "Is that really true?"

“Oh it is! But wait, I haven’t reached the most interesting part!”

"Oh, I do apologize! Pray, continue!"

“With little to be done to govern the island, it became a lawless place. For centuries, pirates and privateers from all around would gather in this place. You see, with the swift currents of the Bristol Channel, merchants bringing valuable imported goods were forced to navigate close to the island. And the mighty cliffs and jagged rocks of Lundy made it the perfect place to lie and wait for unsuspecting ships.”

James leaned back in his chair, reveling in Francis’ attention. ”At one point, a group of Barbary Pirates flew their flag over the castle. But the curse of the island would come to plague them too, as most were captured within the next five years. Yet even when the island was returned to British rule, it would fall prey to pirates into the eighteenth century. Some say there may be treasure hidden deep in the many hidden tunnels below the ruins.” 

A look of concern passed over Francis' face, but he adjusted his expression quickly. "I had no idea this place had such a brutal history," he said. "But, I dare say that if there's anyone who can overcome a geographical curse, it would be us." He reached across the table to casually pat James' hand, but withdrew quickly, as if he'd thought better of the act.

James wished his hand lingered just a little longer. 

"At any rate, it's bound to be an educational experience. And who knows? Maybe we'll stumble across some of that lost treasure." Francis grinned and scraped up the last crumbs of his pie, then licked his spoon clean. "Well, James, I must admit, that was delicious. Perhaps I should have asked you for cooking advice long ago!"

“See, Francis. Perhaps you’ll be surprised what good listening to me can bring.”

Francis chuckled. "You may be right." He stood from his chair and picked up the plates. "Why don't I take care of the washing up tonight, James? After all, I left you to finish the cooking on your own. It's only fair."

“Fair enough.” James stood and placed his plate in the basin. “I’ll be upstairs then, I suppose I must plan our course of action for our great adventure tomorrow.” 

"Yes, of course. No doubt you'll have a thorough itinerary of locations and historical narrative for each stop along the route." 

“Of course, how else are we to do it? Simply go and look? Preposterous.”

Francis gave James a genuine smile in reply, and turned his attention to washing the dishes.

James walked out of the small kitchen and turned towards the stairs going up to the bedroom. He paused. He turned back to look at the painting hanging in the hall. 

_I should take that thing down._ James considered all the other drawings he had, there would be something else among them that he could hang instead. 

James tip-toed back down and took the thing off the wall. He peaked around the corner into the kitchen, Francis was still busy with the dishes. James crept up the stairs into his study. 

He set the offending painting facing against the well. He picked one recent sketch of a puffin. _Yes, this one. Francis loves puffins._ James slipped it into a spare frame and slipped back downstairs to place it on the wall before returning to his bedroom and locking the door. 

James opened the top drawer of the dresser and reached for the curlers. _Francis won’t like it,_ he thought. He stopped himself. _Why do I care so much? Why does it matter?_

That question could go both ways. To curl his hair or not to curl his hair- _that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_ , the stain and misfortunes of lackluster curls, _Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing Francis_ , _end them_ \- to sleep, to have curls no more, or lose his affections. _The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks._

James stared at himself in the mirror. _If I carry on like that I will certainly lose him._ _Enough theatrics._ His hair no longer held the curl of the morning, certainly not with the wind, but James had to try, despite it all. Making an effort, persevering through it all, that was what mattered to him. 

James sighed. He couldn’t win this, and he felt _exhausted_. James pulled the brush out of the drawer and began combing his hair. _Francis did have a point -_ he’d have a whole extra hour every night if he didn’t bother with his hair. It’s not like he looked repulsive without curling his hair, and Francis had seen him in far worse states. 

James shuddered at that thought. He felt an ache in his side. It was only a strained muscle surely, but now every ache and pain made James worry - made him check twice and recount the cause. 

James pulled his hair back and braided it loosely, tying the end with a ribbon. He opened the drawer again, the abandoned curlers taunting him, reminding him of how he was failing everything with Francis. He pushed them to the back of the drawer and placed Francis’ sweater on top. 

_There, that’s better._

_Is this the end of vanity?_ James caught his own gaze in the mirror, studying his long face in the candlelight, with the curtain of curls pulled away. _Or is it the end of something else entirely?_

_~~~~~_

The following morning, Francis awoke in a state. He was breathless and there was sweat on his brow, his heart pounding. He’d been having the strangest dream, so vivid that the images still danced through his mind, just behind his eyes. 

In the dream, he’d been in the kitchen with James, just as they had been the night before. James was behind him, his arms around Francis, showing him how to properly slice the potato. However, instead of pushing away from James as he had done, the Dream-Francis had instead turned and faced him. His heart flip-flopped in his chest when he thought of it - James’ face so close to his own, his pupils fully dilated with excitement. He could practically feel James’ warm breath on his face, and the thought of it gave him goosebumps even now. But what happened next defied all explanation, at least in Francis’ mind. In the dream, he had backed James up against the wall and took him by the wrists, lifted them above his head and pinned them to the wall. Then his mind produced only a blur of warmth and sensation and racing heart and flashes of color. Perhaps in wakefulness, Francis had repressed the memory of what exactly had happened, but he remembered the way his body had responded. His body remembered as well, he realized as he glanced down at himself under the sheets. The morning chores would have to wait a little while longer...

Twenty minutes later, relieved and dressed, Francis crossed the hall on his way to the tower and noticed that something was… _off_ . He paused and looked at the wall where James' awful, ambiguous painting had been hanging for the past two weeks, but it was gone. In its place was a smaller, framed sketch of a puffin. Francis felt his heart sink. James must have removed the painting after overhearing his bitter tirade the day before. He hated the fact that James had heard all of that, and hated himself for ever saying it. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the painting; the problem lay in _him_ , and his infernal insecurities. He made a mental note to try and make it up to James later on. After all, they had the whole day to spend together, exploring the island and enjoying one another's company. He thought briefly of his dream and shivered. Work was the solution. He would throw himself into his morning duties and forget all about it by the time he had to look James in the face.

Francis went about his morning duties with gusto. He was a little surprised to find that he actually _was_ looking forward to this outing to the castle, despite the spooky stories and legends surrounding the place. Now that the sun was up and the heaviness of darkness no longer covered the island, the thought of ghouls and ghosts and demonic pirates seemed completely absurd. And as he immersed himself in the daily care of the light, he found that he was able to relax. It was only a dream, after all, and no man could be held accountable for his dreams. It had been an anomaly - nothing more. 

Finishing his chores in record time, Francis cheerfully made his way down the stairs to find James waiting at the bottom. He leaned on the railing in his usual fashion, and on his arm hung a straw picnic basket. The discordant thing about this sight was James’ _hair_. His curls hung in loose waves, some falling towards his face when they’d normally curl away. It looked longer, more wild, yet still elegant, as James always was. Was this what his hair was like naturally? And if so, why did he ever feel the need to change it?

"Good morning," Francis said as he reached the bottom of the staircase. "All set for our great adventure?"

“Good morning, Francis. Why yes I am.” James grinned. He held the basket out, and Francis accepted it, lifting the lid to try and peek inside, but the contents were wrapped in a cloth napkin. 

"What have you packed for us?" he asked. 

“We have some leftover pies that Tad hasn’t eaten yet, as well as biscuits.”

"That sounds perfect," Francis said. He could practically feel his stomach rumble, thinking of how delicious those fish pies had been. "Well? Shall we?" 

“Yes.” James pushed the door open and held it for Francis. “I thought we’d start with the cemetery, as it’s right here, then make our way to the castle.”

Francis forced back a shudder at the thought of the cemetery. So far, he'd somehow managed to avoid it in his daily rounds, but of course, it made sense that James would be interested in it, since it would be full of history. "Very well," he said, and stepped out into the bright sunshine.

James practically danced along the road, tracing his long fingers along the wall the lead away from the lighthouse. 

“The wall here is the oldest thing on the island. I can’t help but think of the people who lived here, or if they even lived here at all. Perhaps they came here to bury their dead on the most prominent part of the island, facing towards the sea. A rather honourable resting place, don’t you think? Alone from the rest of civilization, _where none intrudes, by the deep sea,_ ”

"Indeed," Francis agreed. "Especially for a sailor." He regarded James curiously. He'd never realized that James enjoyed the poetry of Lord Byron.

“Of course, the land here was ideal for building a lighthouse, and when Trinity House chose to build theirs here they knocked down a portion of the wall and excavated several graves.” James turned to gaze back at the lighthouse. “I wonder how their spirits must feel about this lighthouse being here. Are they understanding of it here to guide sailors, or are they now restless and angry their peaceful place of rest has been distrubed so.”

Francis frowned, wondering whether James was intentionally try to spook him with all this talk of restless spirits. But then he remembered the countless tales that James had been so fond of telling, and understood that this flare for the dramatic was simply in his nature. Still… he didn't like the idea of ancient graves being disturbed.

“And over here, these things you called rocks? They aren’t just rocks, they’re grave markers.” James leaned in to trace the etching on the largest one. “This is Celtic, I think.”

Francis leaned in to have a closer look, but could barely make out any discernible shape. "It's difficult to imagine the number of years it would take to wear away the etchings on these grave markers, isn't it, James? It makes one feel quite insignificant."

“It certainly does.” James turned back to the road. “I’m sure you’ve seen the other buildings on the island, we’ll see some on our way. Many people have made, often futile, attempts to build a home here across the centuries.” 

James shot Francis a smile. “I think the greatest issue all these people have run into is their own ambition. They fair to account for what it would take to maintain a life out here. There was a man, an Irish baronet actually, who purchased this island in 1802 for over five thousand pounds with the intention of building a self sustained Irish colony with its own stamps, coins, and laws.”

"Ha! I would praise such Irish ambition, but for the fact that he must have met with miserable failure, by the look of things."

“He brought over tenants to farm the land, livestock. But they soon came to the miserable realization that nothing grew on this land. He spent the last twenty years of his life trying to get someone to take the island off his hands.”

"Poor devil," Francis said.

“Indeed. His story is only one of many. There is a grand estate here too, but it’s been abandoned more recently, too. Managing the island and keeping it supplied grew too much of a financial burden for the family.” 

Francis couldn't help but wonder whether he and James would meet such a fate. How ironic it would be for them to have survived the horrors of the Arctic, only to return to Great Britain and be defeated by an island. Looking down at the rugged terrain, he couldn't help remembering the miles and miles of limestone over which he and James and the others had trudged. The thought was not a pleasant one. 

Francis was just about to ask how much farther it was to the castle when they crested the hill they'd been climbing, and the ruins came into view before them. The castle remained remarkably intact, hardly a ruin at all. It was a large structure made entirely of stones, each one a slightly different shape, size, and color from the others, and though he couldn't call it precisely awe-inspiring, it was still impressive, considering when it had been built.

"Amazing," he said, almost under his breath. He looked over at James and smiled. 

As they approached the castle, the sheer size of it became clear. Francis no longer doubted how thick the walls were. 

“Not a bad place to evade the law, huh?” James said. 

"That much is certain," he agreed.

“Come on, let’s see if we can get inside.” 

"What? Are you sure that's a good idea? The structure _looks_ sturdy enough, but it might not be entirely sound. And anyway, it's not our property…" But James had already jogged around the side of the castle. 

Francis turned around the corner to see James standing before a great tunnel, leading from the base of the castle into some pitch black unknown. 

James turned back to Francis, smiling.

"Absolutely not, James! There is no way I am going in there!" There was no telling where that tunnel went, whether it was a way into the castle or just a steep drop down the cliff face and into the crashing surf below. The way that no light seemed to enter the tunnel was _unnatural._

“I thought you agreed to an adventure, Francis?” James said. 

"So I did, but getting myself killed in the process was not part of the plan."

James sighed. And continued circling the castle. “How do you think the kings’ men got into this thing besides that tunnel? Seems completely impenetrable.”

“Starved them out I suppose.” 

“They must have gotten in somehow. Perhaps those windows up there.” James pointed up to small windows well above the ground. “I could probably climb up there, if you gave me a hand,” James said, staring up at the largest of the windows. 

"Don't be absurd! You don't have any idea what's waiting on the other side of that opening. You don't even know if there's floor on the other side or a drop. Absolutely not!"

“No, just hear me out, Francis. If you can hold onto my legs, you can help to keep me pinned to the wall. I won’t fall as long as you’re holding onto me.”

The image from his dream came rushing back to Francis all at once - the thought of pinning James to this wall, here and now. Kissing him, pressing his body against the cold stone, peeling his clothes off, layer by layer… 

“No!” Francis shouted, a little more adamantly than was necessary. “There will be no holding of legs and pinning of walls here today.” 

“Where’s your sense of adventure, for God’s sake, Francis? You agreed to this, if you can recall? What about the gold?”

"The gold? I'd much prefer to have you return with me intact than to find some long buried - and most likely fictitious - treasure." _Oh, James…_ he thought, _always eager for the thrill. Don't you know that you are worth more to me than gold or diamonds ever could be?_

James stared at the window longingly. He sighed. “Alright, Francis! Fine!” He backed away from the wall to face Francis. “I suppose the secrets of Marisco castle will remain a mystery to us, for now.” 

Francis could sense his disappointment, but couldn't help feeling relieved that he seemed to have been deterred from getting his neck broken, for the moment at least. He turned to the south and saw the sky darkening rapidly - storm clouds rolling in off the sea. 

"I think we might be in for a storm, James. We should probably get back. We can have our picnic at the house."

James looked up at the sky. “Yes, that’s probably wise.” James trudged back toward the road. 

"Don't be disappointed, James," Francis said. "I've really enjoyed learning about the island. I can't believe we haven't walked down here before now."

“Yes, there’s a lot hidden on this Island, impossible to find without knowing it was there in the first place.”

"We'll have to plan another venture like this," Francis suggested, hoping to lift his spirits. "Thank-you for showing me all this."

“Oh? You’d like that, Francis?”

"Of course I would. You know I enjoy the time we spend together. It's just that there is so much to keep my busy, tending the lighthouse, and… well, time has a way of slipping out of my grasp. But yes, I would very much like to do this again."

James grinned as he gazed back to the road ahead. “Well, shall I race you back to the light?”

Francis laughed. "I don't think my knee would allow for that, James, though you flatter me with the inference that I would be capable of a race!"

“Ah, of course.” James veered off the path towards the wall. “Well, Francis, I am determined to have _some_ adventure today,” he said. In one quick motion he hauled himself up on the wall, and stood to full height with his arms outstretched.

Francis felt his muscles tense just watching him. "James! What do you think you're doing? Come down from there!" He knew he probably sounded like a doting old man, but he couldn't quite dispel the image of James tumbling off the wall.

“I’m climbing a wall, Francis. What does it look like I’m doing? You wouldn’t let me climb the other one!” James stepped across the ragged stones, somehow managing to balance one foot in front of the other. 

"I can see that you're climbing a wall, but you're also tempting fate. You know I can't carry you all the way back home if you fall and break a leg! And don't tell me it can't happen. One only need look at your body to see all the scars and bruises from your past follies!"

James rolled his eyes. “Must you remind me of all that, Francis? Really, after all these months, now is the time to remind me of my past mistakes?”

"Apparently I must, since you seem determined to repeat them," Francis shot back. "Now for God's sake, get down!" 

“Perhaps I’m doomed to repeat my mistakes, but at least I’m willing to take a risk and try and make my life more interesting. Meanwhile you’ve never wanted to do anything differently in your life!” 

Francis gaped at him. "That's hardly fair, James! I'm only concerned for your safety!" _Is he right? Have I become so paralyzed by fear that I let life pass me by?_ "We can discuss this back at the house. Just please come down." 

It happened in an instant, but to Francis, it seemed that time stood still. He saw James' boot catch on a rock which stuck up at a jagged angle. He tottered, arms flailing, and Francis rushed forward, propelled by sheer instinct and reflexive energy. In that moment, images flashed through Francis mind: _James staggering and falling as he hauled the sledge boat. His eyes clouded with blood and unable to focus._

He reached James a moment too late, managing to halfway break his fall, but not able to catch him fully. He scrambled to right himself and his eyes darted over James' body, searching for a sign of serious injury. He saw blood. _Blood...seeping from his scalp… blossoming on his shirt from the newly reopened scar… so much blood…_

"James! Are you alright? Have you broken anything?" 

“No, nothing’s broken. Just my pride,” James said, his tone hardly conveying the fact that he’d just fallen off a wall. 

"You're bleeding. Where is the wound?" 

As it became evident that James wasn't in any danger of imminent death, Francis' initial panic gave way to anger. "Damn it, James, this is what I was afraid of. If you hadn't insisted on climbing that wall, this wouldn't have happened." 

“For God’s sake, Francis, not this again! What’s done is done.” He lifted his hand off the ground, revealing the deep cut across his palm. Blood flowed steadily from it, dripping over his wrist and staining the grass and stones beneath.

Francis began to reach for the injured hand, but stopped himself. "That doesn’t look good, James. We need to get that cut cleaned and dressed. Come on, let's get you home." He hobbled to his feet and reached out for James' good hand to help him up.

James glared up at him but took it. 

~~~~~

_Climbing that wall was an incredibly foolish thing to do_. Very impulsive, even by James’ standards, and he wasn’t about to admit that to Francis. He stared down at the blood oozing from the hole in his hand, starting to feel the pain of it reaching up his arm. 

He clinged to Francis as they walked back to the lighthouse, even though he was perfectly capable of standing on his own. 

Francis sat him down at the kitchen table. Tad ran up to him, winding himself around James’ legs and meowing loudly. 

Francis went to the cupboard and pulled out the medicine box, grumbling about this and that under his breath. Once he'd gathered what he needed, Francis returned to the table and sat beside him. "Alright, James. This cut looks fairly deep, so this will probably hurt," he said as he pulled out a small glass vial of iodine and a clean cloth. "Are you ready?" he asked, looking up to meet James' gaze.

“Just do it already.”

Francis nodded and poured a small amount of the iodine over the wound.

James could feel it sting instantly, the feeling quickly spread. “Ah, fuck!” he cursed.

"I told you it would hurt, James. Must you use that language?"

“I am a goddamn sailor, Francis, of course I curse like one! Besides, we aren’t in bloody London anymore.” _How dare he have a problem with my language now._ After everything. 

Francis dabbed carefully at the edges of the wound with the scrap of cloth, cleaning up the excess iodine. "That may be true, but we can still behave like civilized men," he said.

“I thought it was civilized men that you so desperately wanted to get away from, huh? Here I thought you’d be the last one to mind my cursing.” _Civilized men?_ He wasn’t about to listen to a lecture on being civilized men from Francis. 

Francis sighed, "If it makes you feel better, James, then go ahead." He set the iodine and cloth aside and rummaged in the box for some gauze. "The bleeding seems to have slowed, so at least I won't need to stitch you up like a torn sail." He lifted James' hand off the table, cradling it gently in one palm as he carefully unrolled a measure of gauze and began to wrap it around the wounded hand.

It was James’ turn to sigh. Francis’ aversion to his cursing was something else he’d misjudged about him. Another was how delicately Francis was handing his hand, he never got such a treatment for any ship’s doctor - besides Henry, perhaps. There was something in the way Francis’ much more calloused hands held his hand in place, and the way he made sure not to wrap the gauze too tightly. Francis cared about him, James knew that, but he could see the worry in his brow now. 

Francis looped the gauze around James’ thumb. James was all patched up, the knot tied, but Francis still held James’ open hand in his own, still gazed down at it. His fingers traced the back of James’ thumb. 

_What is he doing?_ James thought. Every nerve in his hand still burned, he wanted to flinch away, but he held his hand still. 

Francis’ hand came to wrap around James wrist, giving it a light squeeze. He sighed, and then took his hand away. Francis looked up and James met his pale eyes, for a moment, before he turned away again, standing from the table. 

"You took a nasty fall out there, James. Why don't you lie down and have a rest?"

“Alright, yes.” James was exhausted. He wasn’t ready for another spat with Francis, not tonight. He stood, feeling an ache in the side on which he’d fallen. 

Francis stepped aside and let James lead the way up the stairs towards his bedroom. Tad raced up the stairs ahead of him. 

James sat down on his bed, realizing he was still wearing Francis’ sweater and his boots. He couldn’t take them off now, not without help - but asking Francis now?. 

“I think I’m settled now. Thank you, Francis,” he said. He gazed up, but Francis only met his eye briefly. 

"Your boots…" Francis said. "You'll be wanting those off, won't you?"

“Perhaps...”

Francis got down on his knees in front of James and, without another word, gripped one boot, and then the other, by the heel, and pulled them off his feet, setting them aside.

_Well,_ James thought, as he stared down at Francis kneeling between his legs. _This is not an image I’d like to be considering right now._

"There you go," Francis said, getting back to his feet, not very gracefully. 

“Uh...Thank you, Francis.”

"You're welcome, James," he replied. He lingered at the doorway for a moment.

Part of James wished he would stay, _just sit on the edge of the bed for a moment or-_ no, Francis had duties to attend to. More, now that James was injured. James smiled at him, softly. 

Francis returned the smile and nodded, then slipped away, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click of the latch. 

James stared at the door, half hoping that it would open again and Francis would burst through, telling James that he couldn’t bear to be parted from him - that he would stay with him and keep him warm and safe. But the knob did not turn, and the door did not open. James sighed and closed his eyes.

~~~~~

After leaving James to rest, Francis walked to the kitchen. He stared out the window, his hands balled into fists and jaw clenched. His whole body was tense and there was a frenetic energy building inside himt that demanded an outlet. The image of James falling off that wall flashed through his mind again and again, punctuated with the image of him stumbling and collapsing on the rocks of King William Island. In both instances, Francis had wanted nothing more than to catch him and protect him, and in both instances he had been helpless to do so. 

Francis was angry - angry at James for insisting on taking such ridiculous risks, angry at himself for not being quicker and stronger, angry at the universe for saving them from death only to bring them back to a life half lived, haunted by the ghosts of the past. He thought about the way it had felt to hold James' hand in his own as he cleaned and dressed the wound; his skin was so soft and smooth - too delicate to belong to a man so strong and fearless as James. And yet, it was fitting as well - the beautiful paradox that was James Fitzjames. 

Glancing longingly back at James' bedroom door, Francis considered going back in to him. He could slip into bed beside him and hold him close while he slept - could touch his hand again, or his face...his hair… _Not this again. Come to your senses! Dreams are one thing, but this is real life, and I can’t risk it._

Outside the window, lightning flashed, illuminating the pickaxe Francis had left outside earlier, leaning against the stone wall - that damned stone wall with its cold, jagged edges. Filled with a rage he did not fully understand, Francis stormed out the door and down the path. He grabbed the pickaxe on his way by and marched straight to the spot where James had fallen. His blood was still smeared over the stone, and the sight of it was like a musket ball to Francis’ chest. Planting his feet, he lifted the pickaxe over his head and brought it down on the wall, hard.

The force of the blow reverberated through his hands and up his arms, but the pain was welcome. The pain was cleansing - a release for all the stupid, irrational, infuriating emotions he'd been keeping welled up for the past two weeks. He opened his mouth and let out a visceral growl of pain and anguish and anger, and it felt good. 

"Damn you!" he shouted. "You'll not take him from me! Do you hear? I won't let you!" Francis didn't know to whom or what he was shouting, but it hardly mattered. Against whatever god or cosmic fate that listened, or against the very stones of the earth itself, he railed.

Lightning flashed, followed closely by a loud clap of thunder, but Francis took no heed. Lifting the pickaxe over his head, he swung it down on the rocks again, and again, and again. "You've taken my men, and my ship. You've taken my pride, my strength, and my sanity, but you _will not take James from me_!"

The clouds opened above him and rain poured down in sheets as the thunder rolled, but Francis kept at his task, striking the stone wall over and over, until the bloodied stone had been obliterated, and a large hole gaped conspicuously in the wall before him, stone fragments scattered over the grass where James had fallen. Finally, just as the wall had done beneath his hands, Francis crumbled, slumping forward to lean heavily on the end of the pickaxe. _We are at the end of vanity,_ James had said. It was the truth. Francis sobbed, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the rain that had soaked through his hair and clothes and sluiced off of him in torrents. 

There was no fighting it, Francis realized in that moment. There was no hiding from his own feelings - no use trying to deny them. Nothing mattered if James was lost. James was the _only_ thing that mattered. The epiphany rocked him to his core, but rather than dread, he felt a rush of pure relief. Simply acknowledging what he had been feeling all along, but had been too stupid, or too stubborn to admit felt like breaking shackles off his wrists and ankles. He was free!

_James will never return such feelings,_ he thought, _but what does it matter? He loves me in his way - he's proven himself a good, true friend. And as long as he is by my side, I can do without the rest of it. If I can only live out my days with the pleasure of his company, I will die a happy man._

~~~~~

James awoke alone and in pain. The heavy rain and wind beat hard against the walls and windows. He’d woken up in worse states, in worse places. Still, the lack of Francis in his bed felt like a hollow in his heart. 

Every time James felt hope it was ripped away from him. But James would persevere, or he wouldn’t - either way, he rose from the bed. 

James looked to the fogged over window. He balled up his hand in his sleeve and wiped the pane clear. Outside Francis stood on the road amidst the rainstorm. _What the hell is he doing out there?_

James pulled on his boots and sped down the stairs and out of the lighthouse. The cold rain hit his skin, making him shiver. God knows how long Francis had been out there, he must be drenched. 

“Francis!” he called, “Francis what the hell are you doing! Get back inside!”

Francis looked up when he heard his name. He stood, slumped over and leaning on the butt end of the pickaxe, breathing heavily. He was soaked to the skin, his shirt clinging to him and hair plastered to his scalp. "What? Who's being the overly cautious one now, eh, James?" Still, he picked up the pickaxe and trudged up the road toward him.

James did his best to scowl at him, but doing anything with the rain soaking his clothes became difficult. “Let’s go back inside. Now.”

Francis made no argument, and followed James inside, adequately chastened.

James strained to open the heavy door with his one good hand. A puddle formed on the floor around him as he stepped inside. He pulled at the hem of his sweater, awkwardly pulling it over his head. Carefully, he took his injured hand out of the sleeve. It had bled through the bandage again. The rain and blood mixed leaving the whole thing stained red. He would have to get Francis to tie it again. 

"James, your hand…" Francis said, nodding to the soiled bandages as he tugged off his own boots and set them by the door to dry. 

“I’m perfectly aware of it, thank you.”

"You didn't need to come after me, you know," Francis said. "But…" He sighed and then said, "Let's go upstairs, and I'll help you get out of those wet clothes. We can get dried off and then I'll wrap your hand again." 

James shuddered at the thought of Francis undressing him. Was this even something he wanted to allow? But James was shivering now, and with his hand he didn’t have much of a choice. 

“Yes, that would be best.” James nodded. He hung the sweater on the hooks by the door and started making his way up the stairs, trailing water behind him with every step. 

When they reached the top of the stairs, Francis said, "Why don't I get changed first? It'll be quick, and that way I won't be dripping water all over the floor while I help you get changed." 

“Yes, of course.”

Francis disappeared into his own room and emerged a minute later, wearing a pair of pants, but no shirt. He gave James a sheepish grin and a little shrug. "I'm not sure what's become of all my sweaters…" he said, though his eyes darted to James' laundry pile. "I suppose I should have a few spares. Do you have something I could borrow for the time being?"

“Yes.. It’s not a problem,” James managed. He tried to focus on Francis face, not stare down at his broad chest, at the freckles that covered it… James turned away and opened the drawer to pull out a shirt. 

He turned back, focusing on the door frame. “Here, this will do...”

Francis was already in motion, kneeling down to pull James' boots off. 

_Oh God. Oh bloody hell. Someone!_ James wasn’t ready for this twice in one day. 

Francis looked up at him from his position on the floor, bright eyes and strong form in the candlelight. It made him look like he belonged in some paintings by the old masters, and not at James’ feet in some cottage at the end of civilization. He was breathtaking. James bit his lip. 

"You're going to need to lift your foot off the floor if you want to actually take the boot off," Francis said.

_Right._ James lifted his right foot. He started stumbling forwards, unable to balance, he dropped the shirt in his hand and managed to steady himself on Francis’ shoulder. _His bare, muscular shoulder_. 

"Steady there, James," Francis said. He had reached out to place a hand at James' waist to keep him from falling. 

James let out a small gasp. “Oh, I apologize, I can’t seem to regain my balance after that fall...”

"It's alright. I've got you," Francis said. "Now the other foot."

_Oh you’ve got me alright, Francis._ James took a deep breath and shifted his weight off his other foot. 

Francis slipped the other boot off and then rocked back on his haunches to look up at James. With a little smile, he leaned forward slightly, reaching to pick up the dropped shirt.

James could just imagine slipping his hand into Francis’ wet hair, gripping it tight and... _No._ He would not think of that, he _could not. Not now, not ever._

Francis leaned back again and slipped the shirt over his head. Looking up at James, he frowned. "What's wrong?" 

“Oh...” _what was wrong?_ “I’m just cold, that’s all.” But James was sweating under his layers. 

"No wonder," Francis said. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes. You'll feel better after you've dried off." He stretched out a hand toward James' waist, as if to unfasten his pants. 

_What is happening?_ “No!” James cried. He swatted Francis’ hand away. 

Francis recoiled, lifting his hands in surrender. "Ok! That's alright. I'll just… give you some privacy, then?" 

“I’m sorry… I, uh… Yes, I can handle the rest myself, thank you.” 

Francis nodded, looking a little unconvinced, but he stood to his feet and backed away. "Well, if you need any help, just holler. I'll go and find some towels." 

James collapsed onto the bed as soon as Francis left. He shut his eyes and let out a long sigh. 

His mind raced with images of Francis. The constellations of freckles that dusted his shoulder and chest. The way Francis got on his knees in front of James without hesitation. Francis’ hand reaching for his waistband. The way he said _“I’ve got you_.” Would he say it again? Would he whisper it in James’ ear as he held him tight and…

James opened his eyes to stare at the angled planks of wood above, thankful for how cold his clothes felt against his body now. He was sure he wouldn’t last another two weeks in this place. 


	3. Chapter 3

Once alone in the hallway, Francis leaned back against the wall and let out a breath. What had just happened in that room? Nothing made sense to him in that moment, as if the very earth beneath his feet was tilted at a slightly different angle, and he couldn't find his footing. 

_Towels. Focus on the task at hand._ He opened the linen closet and was greeted by an empty shelf. _Damn._ The laundry had not been washed yet this week, and all their good towels were either soiled or wet. He clambered down the stairs and back to the spare room that they had turned into a makeshift storage area. The extra towels were held in an old wardrobe that had come with the cottage. Shoving aside some other household linens, Francis found the towels he'd been looking for and pulled them out. He was just about to turn and head back upstairs when he saw a compartment in the back of the wardrobe that he's never noticed before. Feeling curious, he twisted the small latch and a door opened. Stretching, he reached inside and felt around to see what lay inside. His hand closed around a dusty glass bottle, and he pulled it out to examine it. 

"Well I'll be damned," he said. It was some sort of alcohol for certain. It looked like a wine bottle, but it was old, and he couldn't be sure of what was inside. The cork was pressed firmly inside the neck, so he knew it had never been opened. He tucked it in the crook of his arm, along with the towels, and turned to go back upstairs. 

Francis paused outside James' bedroom door. Normally, he thought nothing of simply walking in unannounced, but the memory of James pulling away from him was very clear in his mind. He cringed at the thought of it. _What did he think I was going to do? Am I really so repulsive as all that?_ He drew in a breath and raised his hand to knock on the door.

"James? May I come in?"

“Yes, go ahead, Francis.” 

Francis pushed open the door and stepped inside to find James, fully dressed and sitting on the bed. _Is that another one of my sweaters?_ His hair, still wet from the rain, hung around his face in loose curls, and Francis wanted to cross the room and wrap him in the towel himself, but judging by what had happened before, he wasn't sure that such an advance would be welcomed. 

"I found some towels," he said awkwardly.

“Perfect, thank you.”

Francis extended the towel to him, but hesitated. "Unless…" Francis gnawed at the inside of his cheek. "I could dry it for you, if you like…" 

James looked up at him, his brow raised and mouth falling open. “I… uh...”

Francis cleared his throat. "I only thought… You've got your injured hand to consider."

“Right, of course,” James replied. He looks down. “Very well, then.” 

Suddenly remembering the bottle he'd found, Francis held it up. "I also found this," he said. He was unsure how James would respond. They both knew that he had a weakness where alcohol was concerned, but this was an exceptional circumstance. "I thought a little wine might help to warm us both up."

James took the bottle and studied it. “Not a bad idea. If you’re sure you can handle it, that is.” James turned to look him in the eye, concern visible on his face.

"I'm sure it will be fine," he said. _I wouldn’t mind a bit of a buzz tonight,_ he thought. "I brought the corkscrew from the kitchen." 

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to open the bottle, as I’m a bit indisposed.” He lifted his hand, which had been redressed and rather awkwardly wrapped. 

"Oh...James…" Francis couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that he wouldn't have the chance to touch his hand again. "I could have helped you with that. But it looks like you did a fine job." This was a bit of an exaggeration. "Shall we go out to the sitting room? You can warm yourself by the fire and I'll dry your hair for you while you have a drink."

“Yes, let’s do that.” James stood and walked over to the doorway, pausing to look back at Francis. 

Francis stood and followed close behind. In the sitting room, he pulled the corkscrew from his pocket and set about opening the bottle of wine. He started to lift the bottle to his lips, but then extended it to James instead. 

James took a sip. “Oh, it’s strong.” He brought the bottle back to his lips and took another, and then another, until Francis thought he might finish off the whole bottle.. James finally broke away, handing the bottle back to Francis. “Ah, sorry.” He wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist. Francis was astonished by the display. He had never seen James drink like this before, and he had a sudden urge to grab him by the arm and lick the remnant of wine from the inside of his wrist. He blinked, clearing his mind.

"I was beginning to wonder whether you were going to save any for me at all," Francis teased, taking the bottle and tipping it back to take a swig. James had been right: it _was_ strong. And since Francis had been sober ever since their return to England, he could practically feel the effect the moment it rolled down his throat. "It's good," he said, sitting down on the sofa. "Here," he gestured to the space on the floor, between his feet. "Come and sit here and warm yourself by the fire. I'll dry your hair." He took another long pull from the bottle. 

James cast him a sideways glance, but turned and sat on the carpet. As if on cue, Tad sauntered into the room and curled up in James' lap, purring happily, completely oblivious to any tension running below the surface between the two men. James stroked his hand through his hair before reaching up for the bottle, which Francis placed in his waiting hand. 

The drink was already warming him and giving his senses a pleasant dulling around the edges. He took the towel and draped it around James' head, careful not to let it fall in his face, and began working the towel through his hair.

"Does that feel alright, James?" he asked, leaning in to speak softly into his ear.

“Mm, yes,” James said. He leaned into Francis’ hands and lifted the bottle to his lips again.

Francis took note that James seemed to be very enthusiastic about the bottle, but he chalked it up to his being cold and shaken from the events of the evening. "Let me have another sip, before you finish it all," he said, leaning forward to reach for the bottle.

“Fine.” James handed it back. “It’s _vinho do Porto,_ Portuguese fortified wine, and it’s quite good.”

Francis took another gulp and handed it back to James. "Porto da what? … Well, it's good, whatever it is," he said. It was strong, and that was the only thing he really cared about. 

He continued running the towel over James' hair until he felt that there was little moisture left for the towel to absorb, but he found that he wasn't ready to stop just yet. He wanted to touch James' hair with his bare hands, and why shouldn't he? He set the towel aside and hesitated only a moment before slipping his fingers into the dark waves and gently massaging James' scalp. "I hope you don't mind… You seem a little tense…" _Yes, that sounds reasonable,_ he thought.

“No, I don’t mind,” James practically moaned. 

The tone of his voice sent a chill running over Francis' skin, despite the warmth of the fire. Clearly, he was enjoying the massage. Francis was enjoying it as well. He carded through James' hair, admiring the way it felt between his fingers. How often had he thought about doing this, but had never taken the chance? He twisted a lock of hair around one finger, then let it fall into a loose ringlet. He smiled and repeated the motion again.

James leaned his head back, sighing quietly. Francis brushed his hand through James’ hair, tossing it to the side, James tilted his head with it, sighing again. _Oh._ Francis swept aside the rest of his hair, and James stretched his neck. It was as if he was putting it on display, just for Francis. The low collar of Francis’ sweater left so much of James’ neck exposed. _Just waiting to be kissed_ , Francis thought. _Or bitten… tasted._

Francis had a vague notion, in his alcohol-dulled mind, that this might not end well, but once the thought had taken hold, he couldn't stop. Releasing James' hair with one hand, he lightly dragged the tip of his forefinger down the side of James' neck, relishing the feel of his smooth skin under Francis' calloused fingertips. James shivered beneath his touch, and Francis leaned forward slowly. 

The smell of his skin was nearly as intoxicating as the port he'd been drinking, and Francis closed his eyes as he drew in a breath. His lips were inches from James' neck and tingling with anticipation, when the softest whisper of doubt echoed through his mind, and he froze. 

"What in the Hell am I doing?" He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Suddenly, he dropped his hands and sat back in his seat, struggling to understand what was happening.

James leaned away and turned around, scowling at him. His mouth fell open, but no words emerged.

Francis felt the weight of his glare and instantly knew he'd done something very wrong. "I… um…" he stammered. "I shouldn't have… I mean… Perhaps that's enough for this evening. Shall we call it a night?" 

“No, Francis!” James climbed to his feet, startling the sleeping cat who ran from the room with a yowl and a streak of orange fur. “No, I’ve had enough of this.”

"I know," Francis said, thinking he'd surely crossed a line. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It was nothing, really."

“There! That’s what I mean! I’m beyond tired of this Francis! One minute you’ve got your fingers in my hair and you’re about to… to… and the next, you can’t get away from me fast enough! You never accept my advice, you can't stand how I look, and you hate my painting of you! So explain to me, then, why do you insist on being around me?”

Francis' head was spinning and he felt completely wrongfooted. "Now wait just a damn minute," he said. “When did I _ever_ say that I couldn’t stand the way you look? And you can’t say that I never--but his argument fell flat on his lips as he realized the last thing James had said. "What painting?" he asked. 

James laughed bitterly. “The one hanging in the hallway leading to the light, the one you couldn’t stand!” 

"That… was me?" 

"Of course it's you, Francis!” James threw his arms up. “Who else would it be?" Tears were forming in his eyes. “You spend half the day in that tower alone, never letting me help you, even if it would mean we’d be done in half the time, and yet you crawl into my bed at night! Do you do it just to torment me endlessly?” he said, his voice breaking. 

Francis felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. This whole time, he'd assumed that James had been the one toying with _him_ , but it seemed that he'd had it all wrong. "I… didn't know…" 

“I don't understand anything with you Francis, but for God's sake stop this!” James reached his hand up to cover his face and turned away from Francis. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” Francis repeated. How could he ever express what it was that he wanted? What he desperately longed for, all this time? He was silent for a moment, at an utter loss for words. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.

James turned away from him, his face in his hands. “This was all a mistake,” he whispered to himself. “Coming here was a mistake.”

Francis sighed, feeling defeated in every sense of the word. "The mistake was mine, James," he said softly. "I never intended to hurt you. _Never_ . And yet it seems I've done little else since we arrived here. I only hid myself away from you because I was too proud-- no, too _afraid_ to face my own doubts. My own… _feelings._ " 

James turned around, his eyes misted over with tears. “ _Your_ feelings? Francis… are you saying...”

"I'm saying what I should have said long ago - what I should have _realized_ long ago.” He sighed, struggling to collect his thoughts. “I understand, of course, if this puts you in an awkward position. And if you prefer not to stay, I will understand, but… James… I've tried to fight it, but I can't fight it any longer. I _love_ you, James. I think on some level, I've always known it, but I didn't believe that someone like you would ever… well…" 

"Dammit Francis, I've been in love with you for years! Back on that fucking ice! I've just been waiting for you to say something, just one word!"

All that time? It wasn't possible. Francis wanted to speak, but words felt inadequate in that moment. In three long strides, he crossed the room, threw his arms around James, and kissed him full on the mouth, a tiny whimper escaping him as their lips met.

~~~~~

Perhaps it was all the wine, or the pain, or _Francis kissing him_ , but the room of the cottage spun in James’ mind. His knees felt weak and he wasn’t sure if he could lift his arms, but Francis’ embrace held him upright. 

No, James had a lot of Port in his life, but _this_ was all Francis. James reached his good arm around Francis’ shoulder and broke away from the kiss. 

“Francis, you… you… I’m not even sure what to say to you right now.” 

"I guess that makes two of us," Francis answered.

“I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, suggesting we take this post and run away from the world, if you weren’t implying we’d be _together,_ ” James said. _Perhaps I should have known better._

Francis chuckled, staying close to James. "Well, first of all, when I mentioned the post, I hadn't actually given any thought to the possibility that you would even _want_ to come with me," he said. "Of course, now that we're here, I can't imagine it happening any other way. But at the time, I thought I would be alone."

“Oh.” Somehow James hadn’t even considered that scenario. “You would have just abandoned me in London? Just like that?”

"No! Not abandon you, James. Perish the thought. To be honest, I thought you'd be just as happy to see the back of me," Francis said. "You've always been more comfortable in the limelight than I, and it would have been selfish of me to keep you all to myself."

“No, never. Do you think I could have made it all those months in London without you? If you’d left me I would have crumbled completely. Or drowned in that limelight without you by my side, sunk like an old ship, far past her prime, _full of_ _holes._ ” 

Francis lifted a hand to gently cradle James' cheek. "Oh, James…" he sighed. "That's not how I see you." Slowly, his hand drifted downward to gently cover the scar on James' side. "Your scars make you who you are, and to me, you are… Well, you are perfect."

Francis lightly caressed the spot with the pad of his thumb. "I said before that it would have been selfish of me to keep you all to myself, but I know, now, that's exactly what I want. I want you, all of you. All to myself." 

“I’m all yours Francis, you don’t have to share with anyone, ever.” James closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. He wanted _more_. He wanted Francis to keep talking like that, to reach his other hand underneath his sweater, and never stop. 

"Are you certain, James?" Francis asked.

James opened his eyes to gaze at Francis, tears clouding his eyes. “Yes,” James said. “Completely. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Francis smiled, a single tear rolling down his cheek. "Then I am, as well, James. Absolutely certain."

“Are we lovers then, Francis?” James reached up to cradle Francis’ face in the same way he’d done with James’ and wiped the tear away with his thumb. 

Francis nodded, nuzzling into James' palm. "I would like that… very much."

“Well.” James smiled. He leaned in so his lips were just short of Francis’ ear. “Why don’t you take me to bed, Francis?” he whispered. He pressed his lips to Francis’ temple before pulling away to gaze at him, waiting, hoping for his approval. 

Francis' eyes widened slightly and his lips tugged into a grin. "I think that's a fine idea," he said. 

And so a weight was lifted, _is this what it feels like to be wanted?_

Francis guided James' hand from his cheek to his lips, kissing his open palm before lacing their fingers together. Turning, he gave his hand a gentle tug, leading James toward the bedroom. 

James smiled, letting Francis lead him.. He closed the door behind them so that Tad couldn’t interfere. 

~~~~~

Francis sat quietly on James' bed and watched as he lit the lamp. Francis' head was still spinning from the shift in the atmosphere, and he couldn’t quite grasp how this series of events could feel both completely natural and utterly surreal at once. 

The lamp flared to life, casting a warm glow on James' face - the same face Francis had looked into every day for so long, always admiring, but never imagining that such admiration could possibly be returned. As James turned back toward him, Francis allowed his eyes to trail down the full length of him, no longer ashamed to let James see the longing in his gaze. He was truly beautiful - long and lean, elegant and graceful. Francis' sweater draped loosely over his slender frame, and for the first time, he realized why it was that he'd always enjoyed seeing James wear his clothes. 

"I may have given you grief over stealing my sweaters, but I have to admit that you look very good in them." 

“Thank you,” James said. He stepped closer to Francis, stopping just short of his knee. “But I think, perhaps, you’d like how I look without it too.”

Francis felt heat rise on his cheeks and he swallowed. "I have no doubt you are correct," he said.

James rested his knee on the bed, on the outside of Francis’ thigh. He wrapped his arms around Francis’ shoulder and climbed into his lap. Francis shifted slightly, surprised by his boldness, and more than a little aroused by it. He placed a hand at James' hip to help steady him, wondering whether he ought to make a move to take off the sweater or wait for James to take the lead.

James reached for the hem. Even with the use of only one hand, he managed to pull it over his head gracefully. He tossed his head back slightly, casting and stray curls back. 

Francis could only stare as James teased him. He felt his pulse quicken as more and more of James' skin was bared, and he longed to touch it - to kiss every inch of it. 

James’ injured hand still lingered in the sleeve. “Alright, I’m afraid I’m going to need a bit of help here. I think it’s caught on the bandage,” James said, sighing. 

Francis couldn't help but laugh. "Don't worry," he said. "I've got you, remember?" Carefully, he slipped a hand inside the sleeve and smoothed the bandage while rolling the fabric down with his other hand, safely slipping the sleeve off and freeing James' bandaged hand from the offending garment. 

He allowed his gaze to roam over James' exposed chest, biting his lip as he reached out to touch him, his fingertips tracing a line from his collarbone to his waist. "God, James…" he breathed. "You are magnificent." He looked up to meet James' gaze, feeling almost shy. 

James smiled down at him. He was blushing, and Francis realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen James blush about anything. 

“You know you’re also wearing my shirt, Francis.” His long fingers pulled at the collar. “I hardly think I should be the only one on display.”

Francis knew that James had seen him just that night without a shirt on, and yet he still felt self-conscious about being exposed now. "I suppose you're right," he said. "We'd better remedy that situation." Reluctantly drawing his hand back from James' stomach, Francis unfastened one button, then the next. He reached down and grasped the hem, pulling the shirt up over his head and tossing it aside.

“Oh, Francis.” James put his hand on Francis’ chest, tracing his collarbone. “You are so handsome, I hope you know that?” 

Francis felt goosebumps rising on his arms at the feather-light touch of James' fingers. "I don't suppose I've ever given it much thought," he said. "Do you really think so?"

“When you came into my room earlier, do you know how hard it was for me not to look at you? Not to imagine being able to put my hands on you?” James’ gaze fell across Francis’ chest and shoulders.

"I had no idea…" Francis admitted. "I never imagined…" He leaned forward and, as he'd been so tempted to do earlier, pressed his lips to the side of James' neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses along his throat. James threw his head back and moaned, burying his fingers in Francis’ hair. 

Francis' hands moved to James' thighs, running slowly from his knees, upward. He wanted those pants off - wanted to see, touch, and feel all of him. Pulling black slightly, he gave James an impish grin and, gripping him at the waist, twisted on the mattress, laying James down on his back and hovering over him. 

~~~~~

James gasped as Francis flipped him onto the mattress. He hooked his leg over Francis and pulled him closer. Yes, having Francis’ strong form on top of him was exactly was he wanted. 

Francis leaned down and kissed him, long and deep, his lips parting to let his tongue sweep over the seam of James’ mouth, coaxing his lips to part as well. He pulled back for a breath, and walked his hands back, pushing himself up onto his knees again. "May I…" He reached out and ran one finger beneath the waistband of James' trousers, begging permission to remove them.

“Oh God Francis, _please._ ” _How desperate do I want to seem?_ But he _was_ desperate, and part of him wanted Francis to know. 

Francis' fingers came to rest at the front of James' trousers, and slowly made their way downward, working each button free until the fabric fell open. He paused, his fingers barely grazing James' cock before pulling away for a moment.

"Would you hand me a pillow, James?" he asked.

James reached back for the pillow. “Francis what are you...” 

"I have a feeling I may need it for my knees." Grinning, he took the pillow, placed it on the floor, and knelt between James' feet.

“Bloody hell, Francis.” _He’s barely touched me and I’m already cursing._ James knew he wasn’t going to last long like this. James pulled his trousers down, threw them off the bed and sat up to gaze down at Francis.

Francis quickly gripped James by his thighs and tugged him to the edge of the mattress. "I thought we might try this again, now that we've cleared up a few things," Francis said, running his hands slowly up James' thighs. 

James’ mind raced through every curse he learned as a sailor. Francis waited there, knelt between James’ legs, illuminated in gold. He was there for James, because he wanted to be, because he _wanted James._ _How could this be real?_ James lifted his hand to brush through Francis’ hair, hoping its’ soft feel could convince him. Francis responded with a gentle sigh, his eyes falling closed for a moment.

“I… Was it that obvious?” James managed, “how badly I wanted this, from that moment you knelt to take off my boots? And then you did again - it was _torture_ , Francis. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind!” 

"What?” Francis laughed softly. “It's wasn't obvious to me. I thought you were disgusted by the thought, actually. When I reached for your waistband and you nearly took my hand off…" 

“That couldn't be farther from the truth, Francis. I was… overwhelmed. I couldn’t be sure how I would _react_ if I’d let you.”

Francis gazed up at him, realization finally dawning in his pale eyes and a grin tugging at his lips. "Well, then, perhaps we should find out," Francis said. Holding James' gaze, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the inside of James' left knee. Then, slowly, he began to leave a trail of soft kisses up James' inner thigh.

“Fuck, Francis,” James whispered. He bit his lip hard and spread his legs further open for Francis.

Francis reached the top of James' thigh and paused a moment, nuzzling at the spot where his leg and groin met. He slid closer, positioning himself firmly between James' legs. and reached up to grip his hips, holding him in place. 

There was such desperation in the action, such desire. Francis looked up into James' eyes before bowing his head and taking him into his mouth. 

James threw his head back, hand tightening in Francis’ hair. “Oh, Francis...” _oh, how good you feel. Yes, Francis, just like that, show me you want me._

Francis made a soft, muffled sound around James' cock as he began to bob his head, his tongue flattening against the shaft as he sucked lightly.

James felt unsteady, but so secure in Francis’ hands, and mouth. _He’s got me._ James let himself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the planks above as pleasure overwhelmed him. 

“Francis...” he whimpered. He pulled at Francis’ hair, trying to draw his head back. Even though James so desperately wanted it to stay there, wanted Francis’ mouth on him as he finished. “I’m close, Francis...”

Francis nodded and reluctantly pulled away. He wrapped his fingers around James' throbbing prick and began to stroke, slowly at first, until his fingers found their rhythm, but then rapidly increasing in vigor. He bent low, pressing his cheek to the satin skin of James' inner thigh.

James felt Francis’ warm breath on his skin again and bit his lip, trying to make this last just a little longer, and Francis’ lips were on him again, kissing James’ trembling thigh. The slightest bit of pain hit as Francis bit him there, and that was enough to send him over the edge. 

“Francis,” he cried as he came, curling his fingers in Francis’ hair.

Francis continued to stroke him through his climax, his pace slowing and finally stopping only when James had finished. "James… James…" he whispered the name like a prayer, pressing his lips to James' thigh after each iteration. 

~~~~~

Francis was panting from exhilaration before he'd even gotten up off the floor. His own erection throbbed with need and he was sure that all James would need to do was touch him and he'd explode. He pushed himself up off the floor, no longer aware of any pain from his bad knee, and crawled onto the bed beside James. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow. Looking down at him, Francis was overcome with a rush of emotion so strong, it took his breath away. Lying there with his eyes closed and his hair fanned out around his face like a dark halo, blissfully content, he was the most beautiful thing Francis had ever seen. 

"James," he whispered, pulling him close. "Please, kiss me."

“You don’t even need to ask,”James said. He wrapped an arm around Francis’ neck and met his lips, causing Francis' heart to flutter all over again as they kissed.

Francis could feel James reaching down with his good hand, pulling at the waistband of his trousers, trying to undo the buttons. He couldn't help admiring the determination with which James acted, and the thought only made him want James all the more.

“Dammit, get these things off, Francis!” James pleaded, eliciting a quiet laugh from Francis. James let go of the offending fabric and slipped his hand under the waistband to trace Francis’ hip. 

"Oh…" At this new contact, Francis' laughter turned to a groan. James’ fingers inched nearer to his aching cock, and he tipped his hips, desperate for contact. 

“Your trousers won’t stop me, Francis,” James said. His voice softened. “But it would make my life much easier if you weren’t wearing any.”

"Fuck…" Francis grunted, and quickly shoved the trousers down past his hips, shifting his weight so he could kick them off of himself and onto the floor. 

“I see I’m not the only one who curses like a sailor when _persuaded._ ” James traced his fingers slowly down Francis’ torso from his chest, and finally wrapped his hand around Francis’ cock. 

"James, please…don't tease me." Francis arched his back, his eyes pinching shut as he thrust into James' hand. He couldn't remember ever being so hard in his life. "I'm close already, James..." he groaned. “So close…”

James leaned in to kiss his neck and began moving his hand faster. Francis slid his fingers into James' hair, curling into a fist as he felt the pressure growing inside him. "Fuck, James! I'm...I'm going to..." His hips bucked once, twice, and then he was undone, his vision bursting into fireworks as he spilled over James' fingers, spattering onto his own stomach in the most explosive orgasm he could remember. 

With a light tug at his hair, Francis urged James' face toward him and caught his lips in a deep, breathless kiss, pulling back only when he needed to for air.

“Now imagine what I can do with _two_ hands," said James. "Or my mouth... That’ll be a treat for the next rainy day.” 

Francis shuddered pleasurably at the mere thought of James' mouth around his cock. "I... shall look forward to that," he said, still out of breath. "Though I'm not sure we need to wait for a rainy day." He chuckled, reaching over to trace James' lower lip with his forefinger. "I'm sure we can put that mouth of yours to good use, James. No doubt your silver tongue is good for more than telling stories." 

“Oh, I can think of many.” James smiled. “But for now, you’ll have to settle for more stories. Perhaps the real story of my time in Singapore with John Barrow’s son…” 

Francis arched a brow as a hint of jealousy slithered around his stomach, but it was overshadowed by the all-consuming bliss that blanketed him. "I think I can manage that," he said with a soft laugh. "As long as I get to carry you to bed after the story is finished."

James’ brow went soft and his mouth fell open. “Francis I… Yes, I would like that, very much.” His voice had lost it’s seductive tone from before. “But, what about your knee?”

"Never you mind about that, James," he said. "I would crawl through a mile of broken glass if it meant I'd find you on the other side. I'm certain I can manage crossing the cottage on a bad knee." 

Francis reached up to lightly trace the line that ran down James' cheek. He had thought of doing this so many times before, but never had he allowed himself to dwell on it. Now he couldn’t seem to stop. 

“Is this really happening?” he asked, his mind still fuzzy with the afterglow. “It _feels_ real, and yet, somehow… it feels like a dream.” 

“Well, Francis, at the very least it’s a very good dream,” James said, smiling at him.

Francis couldn’t help returning the smile. His fingers slipped into James’ hair, combing through it slowly. “Do you know, James… I had a dream about you just the other night. It was… well, it was illuminating.” 

“Oh?” James propped himself up on his arm, his eyes lighting up. “What kind of dream, Francis? Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t remember all the details,” he said, feeling quite sure the lie was visible on his face.

James turned his head to give him a sideways glance. “Well that is a shame, Francis. To think, if you did, we might be able to reenact some of those _details._ But you know, I’m no stranger to _provocative_ dreams myself.” 

Francis arched a brow, somehow surprised by this revelation. “Do you mean to tell me that…” He paused, biting his lip. “Alright, I might be able to remember a _little_ bit about it,” he confessed. “Do you remember the other night when you were showing me how to cut the potatoes, and I got upset and stormed out of the kitchen?”

“Yes... I remember it quite clearly.”

“In my dream, that scenario ended up quite differently.”

“Oh, do tell.”

He felt inexplicably bashful in telling, but forced himself to go on. “Well… I suppose it must have been my subconscious mind trying to give me a not-so-subtle shove in the right direction. In the dream, instead of running away, I turned and pushed you up against the wall, and… well, you can imagine.” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.” James grinned. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Oh, are we playing this game? Very well, then. It went something like this.” Francis rolled over, straddling James and playfully pinning his hands to the bed above his head. “Now, imagine that your bed is the kitchen wall,” he said with a devious grin. 

James let out a gasp. “Well, you’re full of surprises, Francis. I must say, I quite like this option. Although the kitchen wall, among other places… there’s an idea.”

Francis laughed and buried his face against the side of James’ neck before rolling back off of him, staying close. “It was a good dream,” he said. “Though at the time, I was very confused by it. In retrospect, I suppose I should have paid more attention to what my subconscious was telling me.” 

“Yes, I’m quite familiar with _confusing feelings_. I went through something similar.”

Francis was suddenly overcome with curiosity. “Do you mean, when you first realized that you were attracted to men? How did it happen for you, James?” 

“I was stationed on a ship at fourteen and there was this commander… he had this long auburn hair, he’d always sweep it out of his face and tuck it behind his ear. I couldn’t shake the image, I saw it in my dreams, I thought about it enough to get distracted from my duties.”

Francis propped himself up on an elbow and gazed at James intently. “So young… you must have been so confused.”

“I suppose part of me wanted to become like him one day, too. To be the commander that everyone looked up to, who made everyone turn their heads as he came into a room. To be someone some poor volunteer or midshipman would obsess over enough to improperly secure a mooring line.” James sighed. 

“Well, I’m relatively certain you achieved that, James,” Francis said, reaching over to brush a stray lock of hair from James’ face. “Still, it must have been difficult for you, dealing with such strong emotions all that time. Did you have anyone in whom you could confide?”

“No. I found the right circles later, of course. But I became very good at managing my _emotions_ when it came to others, I knew I couldn’t let such things interfere with my career - _such things_ could be ruinous. I’m sure you know. I’ve seen it happen, it nearly happened with Barrow.” 

“I never knew the specifics of what happened in Singapore with Barrow’s son, but of course there were rumors. He was lucky to have an advocate in you, James. But it seems like a very lonely existence for you.” Even as he spoke the words, Francis could hear the echo of longing in his own solitary life.

“I made do, I had good friends, I had my fair share of _larking about_ , and then it was time to set sail for the next adventure. I suppose I never had time to consider any other kind of life, never let myself get attached. I was committed to the sea, in life and in death.” James paused, staring up at the ceiling, not focusing on anything in particular. He sighed. “It wasn’t until I stepped aboard the HMS Terror in 1845 that I thought I’d ever be so truly _ruined_ by someone again.” 

Francis felt something in his chest constrict at the confession, and he looked at James with a sense of wonder and humility so profound that it left him speechless. He blinked, searching for some words that would be an adequate reply, but could find none. Instead, he leaned close and kissed him gently on the mouth, lingering at his lips as his fingers curled into his hair, cradling the nape of his neck. He had never felt so profoundly cherished in his life.

When the kiss was finally broken, Francis said, “I wish I had known long ago. There are so many things I would have done differently. God, James… I was sure that you despised me.”

“I admired you, I was immensely frustrated by you, perhaps jealous. But despise you, never. Your apparent lack of respect for me made me want to earn it more, and perhaps I lashed out when I couldn’t even get your attention. That only made it worse. Perhaps I was so drawn to you because at the time I thought you unattainable, that I’d never truly earn you.”

“Earn me? You make me sound like some kind of trophy to be won. But my whole life, I’ve had to fight to be considered worthy. And then I met you, and it seemed as though the entire world had been served to you on a silver platter. Not only had you achieved a noteworthy rank in the royal navy at such a young age, but you had charm and charisma and… well, just look at you.” He gestured to James’ general appearance, from head to toe. “Yes, there was a certain level of jealousy on my part as well.”

“Vanity and luck.” 

“Nonsense. James, you are a remarkable man. Even before I had any inkling that we would end up in this situation, I recognized that you were desirable. What you see in a grumpy old man like me is beyond my ability to grasp, but I hope that I can measure up to the man you make me out to be.” 

“Now look who’s talking nonsense, Francis. I won’t have you speak of yourself like that. You have risen far above any expectations that I, or indeed anyone could have placed on you.” James leaned in to kiss Francis’ cheek. “You are grumpy, I will give you that. But in a way you’re everything I wanted to be. You don’t have to try, you _are._ ”

“Oh, James… The torment I must have put you through. I’m sorry for that. But I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you, if you’ll allow me to.” 

“Oh it was _agony,_ Francis!” James threw his head back. “I didn’t know what was worse, the frozen kiss of the Arctic or the cold shoulder from you.” Francis gave him a playful shove, and he turned back to Francis. “But Francis… yes, you are welcomed to make it up to me.”

Francis leaned in to kiss James’ forehead again, and had an idea. “Perhaps I could begin my recompense by helping you put your hair into those ridiculous rollers tonight. I doubt it would be an easy task with your hand bandaged like that. Besides, it would give me an excuse to go on touching your hair.”

“Oh Francis, I appreciate the offer, truly. But I’m afraid that there’s a very specific technique I use that you simply will not be able to replicate without practice.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’ll do it wrong, James?” Francis said.

“Yes, I’m saying you’re going to do it wrong.”

Francis laughed and gave him a playful nudge. “Then you shall have to teach me, I suppose.”

“Yes, another time. But for now, you can amuse yourself with my hair all you like.” James nudged him back. “It’s ruined from the way you dried it, and our earlier activities anyway.” 

Francis gave James a look of feigned offense. “How ungrateful of you, James,” he said, but his expression softened quickly, to let James know he was only teasing. “I will get back to your hair in a moment. But first…” 

Francis pulled him into a kiss, deep and slow, one arm slipping around James’ waist to pull him close as they melted into one another. 

~~~~~

James stared at the sun rising up over the horizon, lighting up every cloud in the sky and turning his small world on this island to gold. Finally, it all was his - not the great life he imagined for himself, but one he’d never wish to give up.

Francis began to stir. 

James traced his fingers along the freckles that bespeckled Francis’ chest. He drew lines between them, connecting them, wondering what constellations they could make. What stars did they resemble? Or were they patterns of their own making, there to guide James home.

Francis sighed beside him, and James pulled his hand away. 

"No, don't stop, James," Francis said, his voice still hoarse from sleep. "It feels nice, but I must confess I am a little ticklish."

“I didn’t realize you were awake yet, that’s all,” James said. How long had Francis been watching him? Did it matter now, when all James wanted to do was show how enamoured he was? 

Francis reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind James’ ear. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your focus, James. I was just admiring the little creases that form on your forehead when you're concentrating." He grinned and bent to gently press a kiss to James' forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment afterward.

“I was just wondering how I might be able to navigate by these,” James said, tracing his hand across Francis’ shoulder. “They make me think of stars, but I don’t know any of them yet, I would get so hopelessly lost.” 

"I doubt that,” Francis said, covering James’ hand with his own. He smiled, but there was a hesitancy behind his eyes. “James, I will treasure what happened between us last night for the rest of my life, but I want you to know that… if you have any misgivings--” 

“No. Never. I meant what I said, I’ve never been so certain of anything,” James interrupted. “I hope you’re not having second thoughts?” _Is Francis having second thoughts?_

“No! Not at all,” Francis was quick to reassure. “It’s only that it all seems so…” He paused, took James’ hand and brought it to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “It seems too good to be true. That’s all.” 

_That it does, Francis._ “Well it is true. And if you aren’t about to run out of my bed, perhaps I can show you,” James traced his hand along Francis’ arm. 

Francis shivered under James’ touch. “I… Dammit, I should really tend the wick...” 

“If you really must, Francis.”James sighed. “Or you could stay here, keep me warm, it’s a very cold morning.”

Francis bit his lip, clearly going through some intensive inner struggle. After a few moments, his expression softened and he said, “It _is_ a cold morning… And there’s really no harm in letting the wick burn a little while longer.” 

“Oh no, of course not with how diligently you’ve been tending to it.” James wrapped his arms around Francis and pulled him close. _I’m not letting you go anywhere now._

Francis didn’t fight him, instead pressing his lips to James’ forehead and tenderly stroked his fingers through James’ hair. “Did you sleep well, James? It’s funny, isn’t it? You and I have shared a bed countless times, and yet last night felt entirely different. Of course, our pre-sleep routine was quite different from usual, I suppose.” 

“Oh, I slept very well,” James said. It was true, he had a habit of just passing out in Francis’ arms but this was quite different indeed. “In fact, so well that I think we should make this a more permanent arrangement. Sharing a bed… and the routine, of course.” 

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Francis said, grinning as he ran a hand down James’ back, tracing his spine with his fingertips. “I can’t believe all this time, we could have had this routine in place.” He chuckled, draping on knee over James’ legs. “I can move my things later this afternoon, if that’s alright. I don’t require much space.” 

“Yes, I figure it won’t take you long, especially as most of your sweaters are here already. I think it’ll work just fine, as long as I can keep a few extra things in the spare room.” 

“I’ll only use two drawers,” Francis said. “I always do. And… Wait a moment. Most of my sweaters are in here?” He laughed and gave James a playful nudge. “I was wondering where they’d all got to!”

“You let me borrow them, what was I supposed to do? They’re comfortable! I’m cold!” 

“Oh, James…” Francis said, giving him a squeeze. “Well, I’m glad to have helped to keep you warm, even if it was only by proxy. I do have one question, though. The other day when I came in from tending the light, you were knitting... _something_.”

 _“_ Oh. Well, I was hoping I’d be able to knit you a new sweater, in place of all the ones I’d been _borrowing,_ but it got a little… out of hand? _”_ James motioned to the top drawer.

Francis followed his gaze to the dresser drawer and leaned toward it, stretching to reach for the drawer and pull it open. James reached after him, placing a hand on his shoulder, hoping he’d be able to pull Francis back to him. 

He needn’t have worried, though, because Francis managed to take hold of the bundle of cream-colored knitting and pull it out onto the bed with them. 

“This looks like three sweaters put together, James,” he said, laying it over their bodies like a blanket. “What are you not telling me?” 

“Well, perhaps the project started out like that, but it developed another purpose. Perhaps one that pushed me to go so overboard. Do you remember Lieutenant Irving from the expedition?” _Of course Francis must_ , but James was stalling. 

“Yes, of course I remember him. A good lad,” Francis said.

“I had asked him about anything amiss aboard Terror and he mentioned - I don't remember the words he used - some devious seducer on the prowl. He’d suggested punishing the men in question, and naturally I assured him a warning was sufficient. He said something about encouraging the men to take up drawing, or watercolours, climbing exercises, something of the like. He said it helped satisfy one’s worst urges... _”_

Francis nodded. 

“And I found myself here with all sorts of _urges_ , and although I strongly disagree with his view on the matter, I figured I needed to distract myself. And somehow I created this knitted monstrosity.” James waved his hand over it. 

“I see… and, um… Did it help?” Francis asked, fighting a grin.

“Not in the slightest. Our boy Irving didn’t have a fucking clue.”

Francis burst out laughing at that. “Yes he was naive, wasn’t he?” He took one of the incredibly long sleeves and draped is around James’ shoulders, pulling him close to give him a quick kiss. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Climbing exercises? Is that why you’ve been so hellbent on climbing everything in sight lately?”

“Partially. I wanted to feel _alive_ , Francis!” He sighed. “And I was willing to do amazing things to get my mind off how desperately I wanted to climb on top of you.”

“You wanted --” Francis started laughing again. “Perhaps you should have just done it, James. Would have gotten the notion through my thick skull at any rate!” 

“Yes, perhaps, but I was starting to worry that if I did, you’d be sure to ship me off this island the next chance you got.” He squeezed Francis’ shoulder, as if having a good grip on it would keep him steady now.

“Oh, no, James. I would never send you away. Whenever I pushed you away, it was only because I thought you were poking fun at me. _That_ is why I got so frustrated with you. I think I’ve always been attracted to you, James. I just fought it tooth and nail. It never occurred to me that you would actually desire someone like me, so I assumed that you were having a laugh at my expense. _That_ was why I hid myself away in the tower so much. I suppose what I was truly hiding from was my own feelings.” 

“You know I enjoy a good practical joke, but I would never toy with your feelings. I thought you must know, how could you not? I have never been subtle in my life, Francis. After a time I figured you were revolted by my advances, tired of my stories, sick of _the sight of me_.” 

“God forbid, James!” Francis looked truly stricken. “I’ve been an utter fool. I see that now, and I’m so sorry for it.” Gently, he lay a hand on James’ cheek. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Beyond a doubt. I haven’t stated as much, but I would never have survived the return to England if I hadn’t had you by my side. And now…” He blinked, his eyes shimmering with tears. Instead of completing the sentence, he leaned in and kissed James on the mouth, a tear sliding down his cheek and wetting James’ face. 

When the kiss had broken, Francis still held James’ face in his hand. “I love you, my Darling James. I wish I could go back and tell you that every goddamn day since we returned. But as I can’t turn back time, I will have to satisfy myself with telling you every day for the rest of my life, instead.”

James tried to blink back his tears, but it was no use. “Why must you make me cry so early in the morning?” He placed his hand over Francis’. “You know I’m madly in love with you, Francis.” 

~~~~~

“Would you bring those potatoes over here, James?” Francis asked, glancing over at the lobster cutlets he and James had put together. He had to admit that these new recipes James had found were very tasty, and the kitchen felt somehow less cramped than it ever had in the past, now that he wasn’t afraid to brush elbows with James.

“There you go,” James said, moving them one by one onto the cutting board. “Do you remember how you’re supposed to do this?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember a single thing you said,” Francis confessed. “All I could think about what how close you were and how hard I was trying not to think about turning around and kissing you. Perhaps you could… show me again?”

“Oh? Was I really so distracting?” James stood behind him and pulled him close. “But alright, I’ll show you,” he whispered into Francis’ ear. 

Francis felt a chill ripple over his body as he leaned into James, his head tipping slightly to embrace the feeling of his breath on Francis’ neck. “Forgive me, James,” he said, “if I require you to give me this lesson repeatedly. I fear I may get distracted again… and again.” He picked up the knife and waited for James to guide his hands.

“That’s perfectly alright.” James ran his hand down Francis’ arm. “I can give it as many times as you need, I don’t mind.” He wrapped his hand around Francis’ on the knife handle. 

Francis looked down at the knife and at James’ hand over his own. He wanted to memorize the image, for fear that this, too, would be snatched away from him. 

With his other hand, Francis grabbed the first potato and brought the knife down to cut it in half. That much, at least, he did remember. “How’s that, James?” he asked. 

“Yes, very good, Francis.” 

Francis turned the first half of potato on its side and cut it in half again, then in quarters. He was acutely aware of James’ body against his own, but tried to focus on what he was doing so that they didn’t both end up with cut hands. He repeated the action with the other half of the potato, and threw it into the pot of water. 

“Well? How was my technique on the first potato?” he asked, twisting slightly to look back at James.

“Perfect. You’ll be chopping them for the next pie soon.” James grinned and let go of Francis’ hand.

Francis immediately felt the loss of James’ hand on his own, but he had to admit that it would be quicker to cut the potatoes this way. “Don’t go, though,” he said softly, glancing over his shoulder. “I rather like the way it feels, having your arms around me like this.” 

James wrapped his arm around Francis’ waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Francis sighed happily and picked up the second potato, repeating the cutting procedure on it, followed by the third. When the potatoes were all cut and in the pot, he twisted in James’ arms and slipped his own around James’ neck. “That went much more smoothly than our first attempt at cooking together,” he said.

“Yes, this is much better.” He smiled before pulling Francis close and kissing him. 

Francis smiled against his lips, his fingers once again finding their way into James’s hair, cradling his head as he invited him to deepen the kiss. Just then, however, he heard a thump, and then a long, inquisitive meow. Francis pulled back to look at Tad, who was sitting on the countertop, staring at them. 

“You’ll have to get used to this,” Francis said to the cat. “Isn’t that right, James?” He grinned, slightly flushed. “Perhaps we should take this upstairs,” he said, arching a brow.

“Yes. I imagine he’s quite upset we locked him out of his bedroom.” James glanced over at the cat. “Perhaps we should give him a little of something, as a treat, to make up for all the misery we’ve put him through.”

“Oh yes, the poor thing is obviously starved for attention,” Francis said, laughing. He turned to the cupboard and pulled out a small tin of sardines, which they kept solely for the purpose of bribing Tad with. “Stay right there,” he said to James, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose before moving away to get a bowl to put the fish into. He placed the dish on the counter in front of the cat and then turned to James. “Shall we?”

“Race you back to bed?” James stopped at the foot of the stairs, gazing coquettishly back at Francis with a sly smile. 

Francis considered the proposal for a moment. “Yes, you’re on,” he said. He walked over to stand beside James. 

“Ready?” James asked. 

“Yes.” But before James could run away, Francis grabbed his hand, pulling him in and pushing him back against the doorway. He kissed him deeply, keeping him pressed against the doorway until he felt James’ body relax in his embrace. 

“Francis, what...” James looked back at him when the kiss broke, his lips falling open and his hair disheveled from Francis’ hands.

Francis just smiled at him and hurried up the stairs. 

“For God’s sake Francis, that isn’t fair!” James called after him, not far behind. 

Francis made it to the doorway first and turned around to see James. “What’s not fair? There’s no rule that says I can’t have a little pre-race kiss, as a treat!” 

“That was a mean trick to play on me, Francis Crozier,” James said, his face flushed, but he couldn’t hold back a smile. 

“Well I won, didn’t I? Should have been clear on the rules, James. Something about not _seducing_ your opponent.” 

James pouted in response. 

“Well, what’s my prize then?” 

James stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Well I can think of a few things...”

He stepped forward, pressing Francis back against the bed, and pushed him onto the mattress. Francis looked up at him with unveiled hunger. 

“I suppose I _should_ award you some points for the use of creative tactics,” James said, climbing onto the bed, on top of Francis. “That was quite effective, indeed. But now, if you don’t mind, I would very much like to get back to that kiss.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Terror Bingo fills for "in vino veritas" and "things better left unsaid" that got hella out of hand....
> 
> Some fun ~Historical Notes~ and fun facts:
> 
> Lundy's lighthouse was built in 1820 and most of the history James tells Francis about is in fact true, although quite embellished! You can find out more about the history of the island [here!](https://www.landmarktrust.org.uk/lundyisland/discovering-lundy/history/) on the Landmark Trust Website. Although Wikipaedia was also used in the production of this fic 
> 
> [here](https://www.uniqhotels.com/media/hotels/2a/2.%20copy%20of%20lundy%20old%20light%20hb%20300.jpg), [here](https://www.landmarktrust.org.uk/globalassets/1-aa-new-responsive-site-images/website/properties/k-o/l/lundy/old-light/lundy-oldlight-exterior-view-600x400.png) and [here](https://www.coastmagazine.co.uk/sites/default/files/old_light_lundy_stuart_leavy18.jpg) are some images of the Lundy old light, as well as the connecting wall. 
> 
> [here!](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/vsWpgHdXjZAYe1UH5G03MN5oIf3_I5_yPKPu9djbtFlkmRFr6W7U38NAJZZmqlJL3RD8rT97zTx9E08CqnUAl203MwTBOE9rcM-L0odMjV1sgVboMXJRZpIPXBB7uDoIBjg9MZKlJvZq15-3_1ZVj0wN2Cn_KA) we have an image of the staircase that leads up to the lighthouse.
> 
> for all you nerds, [here is a diagram of the lighthouse design](https://www.trinityhouse.co.uk/asset/1411/view/600?1458045400) and [here is a historic map of Lundy Island](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7c/Lundy_by_Henry_Mangles_Denham_1804.jpg)
> 
> we hope you enjoyed our fic, and and greatly appreciate your comments <3


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